One day I left socks off my feet.
I walked the trench outside with the pebbles and mud and grass eaten by rabbits.
I flicked bird poop with my toe.
A satisfying little pop as the black thing flung away.
I held a piece of mulch between my toes. The pinky and the second to last. The little piggy that had none. Or maybe it was the one that went to market.
I splashed in a puddle made by the run off a big car washing truck event.
No, it was the doctor next door hand washing his minivan.
I kicked through leaves. Picked up a tick, said hi before I shooed it off and before it could get its head in me.
It whispered it wanted to drink my blood.
But I think it was just lost or off a day from Halloween.
I dropped the piece of mulch. It was giving me a splinter.
So now there’s a piece of mulch buried beneath the leaves I kicked.
I think it needed to be there - a squirrel needed a bit of firmness for the nest.
And it didn’t want to cross the street to the neighborhood.
Because the mulch is always better on the other side.
I felt the cracks in the sidewalk, the mini earthquakes that raised the squares up above others.
It is really tree roots, I know that.
But mini earthquakes sound more dramatic.
And squirrels like drama.
I stop when I get to the house that’s sad. Filled with things and pickups and never trash because that’s judgey.
There’s mud here. Mud from the fresh soil that’s resting. I squish in the mud.
Remembering the day we drove by another house, another stuff filled home, I said no, we don’t take picture of other people’s pain.
Sometimes I feel too much. The mud agrees.
I let the grass brush the fresh mud off my feet, the car wash, no feet wash of the world.
No socks today.
