Dark clouds heavy like mountains hurry north and west across the morning sky. They flow the way a river might after strong rains: purposefully swollen with places to go. These could be the large ships from Star Wars, or icebergs – faster than lumbering and thick with intent.  I wonder where they’re going.

Under a three-quarter moon, paper white, a soft wind blows. This isn’t a city and I wish it were. Give me Philly. Give me Memphis. Give me something with a heartbeat more recognizable than this. The moon is right but the streets feel wrong. There’s something off in this thrum and gallop.

Panic. The rusty, steel cable snaps at the bend when the dog pulls. He’s barking at the dogs next door unaware of his momentary freedom.  Spring down the steps, grab the snapped tether, reel him in. I’m sure the sun was rising, and the sky was painterly. It might have been chilly.

No dogs race along fence lines barking. No cars pass at the precise moment of my vulnerability, bent over, bagging poop with the dog doing who knows what leashed behind me. No rabbits scurry in the shadow dark. No crows caw overhead. Just a fleeting moment of peach and rose, day breaking.

I follow the Series from a distance. Friends on a group chat text with enthusiasm. Some of us joke about how great sportsball is – intentionally referencing the wrong sports. I’d like to see the Phillies win; the city come alive. I miss the vibe at Bishop’s Collar – the neighborhood pub on 25th.

The red dots on my phone beckon. Sixteen emails at work, thirty-nine other emails, one LinkedIn, a bunch of likes on a dating app, and two settings about cloud storage. Behind the apps a sunrise scene over an empty field – yellow at the horizon, deep blue top. This could be my foreground.

The leather work gloves look cowboy serious. I’m raking leaves but could just as easily be rustling cattle or fixing the barb wire fence mangled in last spring’s big storm. There is no fence or wild steer – just this rowdy maple rearing up on hind legs, loose and fierce in autumn winds.

The cars on Abby Place have out-of-town plates. Their windshields are frosted over, and the guests are all asleep. Soon they’ll wake and make a big breakfast or walk down to the Waffle Shop and then off to the football game. Our paths won’t cross. They’ve brought their out-of-town bubble with them.

In the morning colors of fire, orange, pink, and peach, the in-between spaces flash a different type of light, a type of absence colored by shades of blue: light turquoise, arctic, bleu celeste. Nothing stirs in the foreground – no squirrels, no finches, no warblers or nuthatches. Frost glazed grass warming and waking.

Setting sun, setting sun – we chase, we chase, we run, we run. The maple leaves not fallen yet curl upwards cupping with purpose the golden light. Perhaps that’s what allows them to hold on and hold out. A northern flicker bobs his red-capped head. Mosquitoes and gnats dance in a disappearing beam.

While looking up the origins of puncture, punctuate, and punctual, hundreds of chattering birds, black against a gray sky, swarm two tall trees – tussled by their landing. A hawk swoops down in their direction and they’re off again. Commas and periods chased by a question mark with the speed of an exclamation.