The Walk

Yesterday’s dead pigeon — whole, still, lying on its back — has been swept aside. Down the street, we meet a neighbor: a woman in a pink jumpsuit and bright white sneakers. Chelsea strains toward her; she shies away. “Looks like your dog wants to go where you don’t want her to,” the woman says, giving us lots of distance.

We round the corner of the utility building, surprising four small birds. They burst into flight; Chelsea dashes after them. From that moment forward, the walk is all about flushing birds out of the shadows. Chelsea creeps up to corners on little cat feet, then bounds around them, her head down and her tail in the air.

The morning sky fills with frantic gray birds; the air rustles with the sound of their wings.

Yesterday’s dead pigeon — whole, still, lying on its back — has been swept aside. Down the street, we meet a neighbor: a woman in a pink jumpsuit and bright white sneakers. Chelsea strains toward her; she shies away. “Looks like your dog wants to go where you don’t want her to,” the woman says, giving us lots of distance.

We round the corner of the utility building, surprising four small birds. They burst into flight; Chelsea dashes after them. From that moment forward, the walk is all about flushing birds out of the shadows. Chelsea creeps up to corners on little cat feet, then bounds around them, her head down and her tail in the air.

The morning sky fills with frantic gray birds; the air rustles with the sound of their wings.

Mark McElroy

I'm a husband, mystic, writer, media producer, creative director, tinkerer, blogger, reader, gadget lover, and pizza fiend.

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Who Wrote This?

Mark McElroy

I'm a husband, mystic, writer, media producer, creative director, tinkerer, blogger, reader, gadget lover, and pizza fiend.

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