a sunny Wednesday afternoon.
just a few words make the whole day matter.

two a.m.
wake up. look outside at sky. hear owl under window. squint at journal and write for next hour. metaphors written at this hour always turn out strangely (“my heart took off like an … elevator”), but there’s plenty to say.

a rainy Thursday at dinnertime.
the clouds are thick with gray, but the air is thick with excitement. why? just a feeling.

a dusky Friday evening.
leaning halfway out the car window with a nikon, trying to capture stunning  rowhouses and church steeples and a sign reading “harvey’s progressive barber shop.” the policeman smiles widely at photographers’ antics. the chilly air is no deterrent. the texture of the city is beautiful, gritty, real, punctuated by stoplights, stereos, and street musicians. it’s a photographer’s dream come true.

three a.m.
eyes open. it is brighter on the street than inside this hotel room. anticipation. but then … remembering. months and months rewind. time is such a relative thing.

late Saturday morning. today.
break into a nearly full run at the very end. strides become longer and adrenaline rushes in. finish line is in front, then behind, hardly a second in between. smile, sunglasses off. runners love pavement beneath their feet, but they also love the end. six miles and i’m not spent, but there’s something twice as hard down the road. right now, i’m going home.


2 thoughts on “Moments.

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