Sitting on the bank, sun and ocean west, relishing gold on the trees opposite.
The back ached from a day of sidewalks. Elbows grasped reddened knees. The cigarette spit a curl of its smoke, which coated his tongue and ached his throat.
He left when the crowd of kids arrived. They were far too noisy, and his shame too great, being old and unwashed and poor.
On the hill with golden trees, the city had cut a switchback trail. He followed it up, back and forth like his life, vacillating between poles around a hidden mean.
A bear crossed the trail. Just a black bear, more interested in berries than him. It didn’t even pause in its ambling; just turned its head and perused him with cold eyes and kept going.
He was fine with that, though a grizzly could have ended it.
At the crest, along the wealthy street, he remembered the bay stretched in morning, the smart of glare like a promise broken as night closed.
He snuck through a yard and plunged down to his tarp. There on the far side, where the sun had long cast shadow, the woods chilled, rustled.
No. Though he could he would not fear the things that stirred the dark. He knew that dark things had their place.
And maybe he belonged with them.
Photos of Hoquiam, Wash. “Home” is a revision of my freewrite from Day 1028. Prompt: uphill.
The places are so beautiful that I am fascinated.
Absolutely they are beautiful. Thanks for viewing.