On the Street

A man jogging down a lamplit, beachside street, or so it seems. Roosters doing what roosters do. Beach waves crashing onto a polluted beach. Ankle bracelets, from the avenue in front of the house: two women.

People living the dream, here. Which dream being the question; they do not ask too many questions. This place is inspiring but you have to get your feet dirty.

The air is kind, sweet-smelling. Crickets or amphibians of some sort celebrate the end of the night – the fat lady in sky-blue pants continues to march down the street, same direction I'd seen her take the first time around. It's morning. The crickets are letting up.

A story will come, if you are patient.

If you're not patient, a story won't come.

A young man strides down the street, à son tour, loving the wind as it brushes against him. He extends his arms, flexes his forearms as if to touch his ears and extends his arms again.

The morning march continues.

Others.

Upstairs Yair hawks up tobacco induced sediment. The fat lady is on lap three, at least. It is now fairly certain she also employs an alternative route. Sightings of her on the lamplit street are identical, each time, walking from left to right. Music booms, three houses away. Perhaps a religious process. Now it's crows, crickets, waves and a stereo. On her way back the woman may be doing a hundred different things. This is unknown to us.

Surf is visible now. The religious music is seasoned with a touch of joyous flute.

Something calm is receding now. Daytime is upon the neighborhood.

People here shit on the beach and the street, their cows shit (defecate) on the street too.

* Inscribed over these pencil-drafted lines is a roughly-circled, black-pen note reading:

How about

saving yourself

or just not needing

saving