The Commute

The bus stop is three blocks away, with a small rise and drop between here and there. I didn't wear my watch. I rarely wear my watch. It's between 8:00 and 8:30 on a Monday, and there is fog in drifts. I can't tell how fast I am moving, or if the sun will burn through the fog, which seems to brighten if I look up. I can't tell how tall a red brick building is. Skeletal leaves lie along the edges of the sidewalk, and there is a small ordinary feather, and I stop and look at them lying there, and hear the thick air being quiet. Someone laughs somewhere, then stops laughing -- the particular sound of something being only a little bit funny. I walk on, past the feather, and picture it back there, and wonder if anyone else will see it, picture myself walking, and wonder if anyone will see me. I hold onto this wonder for only a brief moment. Everything should be as simple as possible, but no simpler. Fog, a feather, the particular sound of a bus pulling away from the stop.