Morning digs into the street behind the park, its crispness orange and reflective. Leaf, feather, and squirrel tail hide my view while I shudder from the tangy peach sliding between my teeth. The yellow watering can on the back patio waits patiently by the flowerpots, but my glance at the clock tells me to rush.
Why, when I have little time do I wish to sit and observe the neighborhood, the back garden, the chairs covered in bird droppings?
More peach, horns honking and hard hats bobbing up and down; more time taking its leave. "It's never the edges of the world that worry"—I remember that line from a poem. I worry, right in the thick of life, the puffy middle like a good pancake. I worry the edges will burn.