Mayflies dot damp sidewalks as we move along with the dogs. Our morning exercise between bouts of rain.
The routes we take are the same. There are only so many streets in this town. Best we can do is switch up our lefts and rights to see the world from different angles at different times.
An inchworm. Translucent green. Dangles from a Maple tree. Spins slowly round and round.
A robin bounces through thick green grass and stops near us. It waits. Listens to a worm move through the earth. Then, it pecks and pulls, stretches the worm out, until it pops from the dirt.
A white wicker rocking chair moves back and forth on the porch of a house on State Street. There’s no wind. Nobody in sight.
The dogs rub noses.
“Did you see that,” I ask.
“They do love each other!” my wife says.
I want to mention the chair. Point to it. Wonder with her at this obvious example of early morning energy, but it’s probably nothing. Things move. And everything’s been in motion forever, and will stay that way, so I keep the obvious to myself.