Am I thinking about the walk or something else? Am I thinking or experiencing? The fallen mimosa blossom. Delicate and exotic. I want to pick it up, to collect it to myself. I pass without pausing, the barest hitch in my gait. Let it be simply something I have encountered. Add it to the fabric of myself, my vocabulary, pink frill of mimosa on the wet and the gray.
I pass through green tunnels, past gardens, kept and wild. The body of a squirrel showing the white of his belly to the road. The roofers and their music and their stays and their view.
I gauge inclines and consider alternate routes.
In the kitchen I am greeted by flies.