7am. Sunday.

A furious sort of momentum, eyes on the graveled pavement, climbing and descending. Listening to the effort of it. Leaning into the effort. Asking: What am I doing? And getting no answer. Everyone is sleeping. Except down 8th where the music is playing and I imagine someone preparing brunch and dancing. And also there's the dark haired man with slender feet perched on the step of his porch, studying his phone. Emblazoned over his door like a floating crown over his bent head, the curlicued initials C&L. He doesn't look up as I cross his path. I am glad to reach the dead in their careful field. The ease of it. The gateway trees shower down on me, first one and then the other. A greeting. The crow takes me home.