Walk On By

6:02 a.m.
I shake off all the "shoulds" of a 51-year-old life and head up the dark street with Finn. My new sandals feel good, although the heel of the right one lets out a slow hiss with each step.  Still, it isn't enough to disrupt the chorus of cricket song.  For a moment, I am lost in the churring hum, wondering how it is that so many songs, strummed out in so many different rhythms, can come together so wonderfully.

My thoughts are disrupted by a runner on 33rd Street, whose speed and stride suggest escape.  More likely, it's determination that fuels him, but I am not a runner and, as such, can only speculate.

Our short stint on 33rd is the only part of our morning walk that is punctuated by the sights and sounds of city life, even when most of that city is still shaking off sleep.  A few cars streak by, one pumping music that feels more Friday night than Thursday morning. Who am I to tell others the right way to start their day?

We round the corner, greeted by the slow basso of a great horned owl.  A few houses later, his song is answered by a frenzied staccato coming from an oak tree across the street.  6:15 a.m.  Closing time for the owls, one last quip before they call it a day.  I am glad for these concentric circles that bring us together for a few moments, Finn and I leaning in to listen to stories not intended for our ears.

I have lived in this neighborhood for nine years, walking these paths a thousand times now.  They are home to me, these streets bathed in the warm lights of waking neighbors whose names now roll easily off my tongue.  At once familiar and new, I cherish these morning walks, my pedometer faithfully clicking off each step.

Soon, we find ourselves on 33rd Street again, the sky a bit brighter, the traffic a bit heavier.  That's when I spy something new on this late August morning--two lanky teens and a young girl shooting baskets in the early-morning light.  I stop and watch them for a moment, wondering if I'm imagining it all. 

6:28 a.m.
3,051 steps.
This morning walk is nothing much, I know.
And it is everything.