Around noon today I sat down, opened a book.
I’d taken a walk around Cardiff-by-the-Sea and had found a perfect shady bench in Glen Park.
Below in the distance people were darting about the basketball court shooting hoops. One person missed, madly whirled, lunged forward, fell back, reached, barely intercepted, passed, darted, jumped impossibly high, caught, shot again, swished, shouted happily.
Upon finishing a chapter, I got up and gathered my stuff. The bench I’d been sitting on had a plaque. “Gotta go, gotta ride.”
It felt like the perfect small poem.
I found six names on six empty benches.
Every word shined.