On Taking Walks

Saturday. An invitation no one has to be offered in order to RSVP. So we're all here. We're all here but we're not all present. This morning--this calm. Every morning there is a calm? Yes. Yes, but not many will bask in it the way they do with Saturdays.
Sabbath Saturday the elegant black with solemn beards and modest hats; elles always exploit the details to show fasionable distinction. With joyful children of Abraham tittering at the morning. A holy morning
Every morning is holy. Hole-y. Wholly.
Walking is the morning, when terriers push at the door. Do they wear the dog coats in the house too? I like to think that the walking mornings are orange-juice coloured, with burnt bits that crumble to the linoleum tiles. And newspaper--there must be newspaper involved: a) tossed hurriedly through the front door b) married with Maxwell coffee c) strewn until the comics are cut out d) or maybe taken for the stroll, to be used more crudely, for cleaning.
I'm almost the only one here now. My lone footprints prove my solitude. Such intimacy--my personal impression on the virgin snow. None can copy it; a Sherlock Holmes kind of argument. Baba always said I had Cha-lae guk.
And this then, is my puddle of the universe. I love the splash of morning--it calls me to help complete it.