Outside reverie

If you sit still, the squirrels don’t see you. Or they don’t see you as a person — a threat.

A gray squirrel, young, with a tail lacking any bushiness, bustles about in the underbrush.

Two lots over, teen boys and a dog make their way down the hill. They crunch across the parking lot, kicking stones and wheezing. The dog, tail up, jogs between them.

Toddler voices echo from two nearby houses. It’s surprising to hear them. “Dad,” one repeats over and over. A phrase she will be doomed to repeat, looking for love and acceptance in all the wrong places.

The teens talk and curse. The dog chuffs and busies about, sniffing after critters and unknown scents.

“Sit!” one boy commands. The dog whines. It is the wrong command, and the dog, if not the boy, knows it. She barks in frustration. They pick their way back up the hill, further away from my view. Their voices die out.

The nearby child still calls out, the words indistinct.

Clouds settle over the setting sun, bluing the sky.

The air is still and cooling. Night is coming. A bird calls. Neighbors’ voices. A car on a nearby street.

A cardinal calls. A crow answers.

I am alone.