Territorialized

He walks by in the morning, before the sun is fully risen, his hands in his pockets, shielded from the wind. Every day at almost the same time he passes, and though his clothes may be different, his face is always the same; tired, barren, defeated. Today he looks especially rough, his pants and shirt badly wrinkled, stained by spilled coffe, wearing half untied shoes and unkempt hair, he trudges through the street with his shoulders rolled, like he's walking through snow. He vanishes and a jogger appears, red in the face and panting, sporting a white T-shirt and blue shorts. She does not look familiar. The bushes whisper and thrash excitedly as she approaches, throwing off wind to fan her face. Her strong green eyes are bright and alert; they move around surveying the sidewalk, glowing in the dawn. In a moment, all that remains of her is a drop of sweat that fell from her elbow onto the cement.

Soon parents can be seen packing their children into cars, buckling their seatbelts and handing them their lunchboxes, ready to drive them off to school.

Fog blows by and rises, forming clouds, blotting out the light, promising rain; they will give us a good drink. The back of my leg feels wet and I see a dog scurry away after I've been marked, territorialized.

None of us speak - there isn't a reason to. We stare out over houses and await the rain. And when the rain passes, we await the sun. And when the sun passes we await the night, when the birds, tired and afraid, come to rest upon our outstretched arms like little coal-colored Christmas ornaments. Once the sun returns, the people do, too.

I often wonder why they move at all; why the woman in the blue shorts runs when she is not being chased.