I wake.
It is early and there is no sun.
I pray and do twenty-two pushups in memory of a friend and
stretch and write and read aloud to myself an excerpt from Satchmo.
The forty-nine square mile map gazes up at me in miniature begging
me to choose some part of its peninsular tip.
I savor a lackluster sandwich and the outdoor seating at a
local establishment known for its fruit.
The hill climbs ahead of me bellowing its laughter up into
the wind while my bald head burns beneath cooling perspiration.
I arrive after wandering circuitous paths, all in service of
the destination.
The return is uneventful.
I sleep.
