Walking at 8:30 a.m.

It will be hot today, but now tree shade and sun are separate as oil and water, each palpable and cool as midnight carried over. Neighbors' cars exit from driveways on their way to work. A small boy hurries home with breakfast milk bought at the corner grocery where I turn. Now on a business street I pass a window where a man lifts his head as I go by. He is perhaps six feet away, but what he sees is the graph - layout - memo? on his desk. I am a shade that walks across his eyes. A little farther on, a car zips in a parking lot; a young New Woman styled in tall heels, long white-troued legs, and briefcase, walks briskly to an office building entrance. Now I turn back to trees and watered lawns. A driveway holds a motorboat. It looms immense behind the car that brought it here and can return it to its element. I feel myself its occupant, see green waves divide, see sky, feel wind and spray. The shrilling of a kettle reminds me where I am. There is a gentle clink of dishes next, and quiet voices from a breakfast table. (How intimate and dear the moment seems.) A child pedals a tricycle at furious speed. I hear the bugling calls of children at their play, and know this summer day is well begun.

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