A January Walk in Commons Park
She cautiously places one foot in front of the other, trying to take in the early morning view of the sun's glistening reflection on the river while cognisant of the slippery spots beneath her sneakers. A few ducks are out swimming even with the air temperature at 30 degrees. The water must be frigid and numbing. She shudders.
Following her seventh sense, she heads to the entrance of the pedestrian bridge where zinnias and sunflowers were blooming not long ago. Piles of snow and a few small branches now fill their beds.
The spiky Pinyon Pine trees are carrying the snowfall from the night before. Their steadfastness and patience seem to orient her. She observes the fresh snow's lightness on each needle while an airy gust blows against her face and bare hands. She forgot her gloves but that doesn't matter. She will only be outside for a few more minutes.
Now at the nautical bridge, she observes how the inclined mast and cables seem to extend even more clearly into the sky today. Her gaze follows to the end of the steel fittings in the middle. They point, almost as if on cue, directly towards starlings flying in unison above. She pauses, not in a hurry. Aware and attentive.
A middle-aged gent in a coffee-colored coat is speaking to a jogger with a Siberian Husky on the path below. The pair are noticeably strangers, yet their paths cross for a moment. The former asks, "did you see the beaver up there?" He motions in the opposite direction as the jogger shakes his head. Then, without hesitation, the eager dog lunges forward and together the two of them return to their original pace. "Clearly not interested in pursuing the beaver," she murmurs quietly.
Surprising herself, she makes eye contact for a moment with the man who had seen the animal. However, suddenly remembering the temperature, she looks down again at her hands. This time, they are crimson and flushed. Okay, time to get back inside. She turns to her right down the circular path.
As she approaches the street, out of the corner of her eye, she can see that he is only a dozen or so feet behind her. She crosses the walkway with a churning in her stomach, sensing a slight awkwardness in her steps.
She slips on the ice and leans back but catches herself before falling. Deep breath. No need to look around to see if the beaver man saw or if he's still close by. She imagines how he is also probably struggling to stay on his own two feet with the slipperiness of an icy, winter morning.
