There’s this thing that happens when you just walk. You notice things.
Walk in the primordial sense. Not to get anywhere, not for any conscious purpose. More subconscious actually, as though the legs have had enough neglect and decide to take matters into their own feet. Just walking to the point of reminding your legs about that walking-rhythm. That biped thing.
Details begin to make noise. Treeshadows suggest something on the asphalt, between nine and 10:30 or thereabouts, then zip up as the sun zeros down. Inanimate objects are trading silent signals, sly commentary on the passing of cars and time. Speculating as to the dip or climb in property values, while waves nibble the continent down to size.
There’s an acrid scent, but it’s fleeting and sweet and it plays in the back of your palette then drifts further back into your throat and scratches out some memory.
Cat, fence-savvy, at first tolerates your presence, then turns in disgust at your feeble two-footed attempts to make friends. There’s a breeze, you walk on.