We’re back on the front seat of the insomnia bus.
Unfinished business from work is clanking around.
No. Don’t get up. Not yet. Keep your eyes shut.
It’s dark. It’s quiet. I listen through my eyelids.
The North winds whistle, and freezing air leaks through the window sills.
It’s cold. I pull the comforter up. Zeke, at my feet, stirs.
It keeps coming back.
It’s mid-December. A late Saturday afternoon. Overcast. Rain is threatening. I grab the leash, call for Zeke and we walk.
Baker Park is a small suburban park, a brisk ten minute walk. It’s adorned with a half-sized aluminum backstop, grassy fields and a small playground. A wooded area rings the back end with paths carved by the Boy Scouts in a summer project.
Zeke bounds ahead, his feet stirring the leaves that layer the earth.
I pass the first. It’s a glance.
I pass the second. It has my attention.
I pass the third. I slow my pace.
I pass the fourth. I’m troubled now.
I approach the fifth. I stop. Don’t you dare move to the 6th.