A Passing Thought

I’m at the park again. Dogs bark at one another in defense. A large man with red hair and a red beard lays on his side under the shade provided by an unidentifiable tree. His shoes are off and he seems to be at ease. A young woman sitting on a bench flips through the pages of an unidentifiable book. There’s a lost tennis ball under the tree, possibly the result of a dog unenthused.

It’s hot but the daylight resembles that of Autumn. Its gleam isn’t so hazy, but clear and crisp. The air doesn’t contain the foulness of July. I keep looking around me, scoping out the park like a guard on duty, only I’m looking for a story, a narrative to convey. If I were poetically inclined, maybe I’d write a few hundred words on the leaves hanging from the trees. Today, I’m not concerned with that so much.

Joan Didion’s portrait is on the side of my tote bag. She’s smoking a cigarette and looking directly into the lens. I wonder if people here know Joan Didion. I flipped over to tan my face, and I had a thought. Life goes like this: you notice a flock of birds in the grass, completely still and together. You realize it, close your eyes for a few minutes and they’re all gone. Of course, the dogs continue barking, and the big red-haired man sleeps on, but that flock of birds has left the stage. As time goes by in this park, it’ll all go. The dogs barking, the big red-haired man, the print he leaves in the grass and the marks of piss from the dogs. Some things will remain intact, the skeleton of the trees, the fences surrounding me, and the fountain in the distance.

I think I’m mindful to a fault. It’s times like these where I’ll note a thing and once it goes, as it was naturally intended, I grow sad.