8:15 am. Friday
A squirrel bolts. The man in the red shirt is past before I begin. I am off my rhythm, off my pace. The rain comes, soft and softer.
I say my prayers. Nothing will save me now.
The cars nose in around their houses. Brown rabbit in the road, showing me his bow legs, showing me his cotton tail. The rushing under the man hole cover. Hush now, hush. The purl of the dove. Chitter of squirrel, nosing into the hollow of the small grey tree.
In the Brown Street Hollow the smokers all stop and stare at my descent. Three women, four. A young man with a girlish waist. A neighbor carrying something on a plate. This offering. This clatch. The exclamation: Girl!
What was it I was trying to remember?