Walking up the hill, my Hokas gripped macadam with each heel plant and fall of the arch and lift of the toes. I smelled the rain, only moments spent. The air was pungent. I swung my white Walmart bag with rubbish from the last two days: an empty bottle of Cholula, a wadded plastic envelope from the online bookstore from which I order, some leftover bones from a broiled chicken.

Rounding the bend my eyes lifted upward to see.

I deposited the trash in the appropriate bins, walked back down, washed up, read some, drank some water before bedtime.

When I walked up and back I glimpsed denizens inside thier domicilies, electrified screens mounted onto sheetrock of living rooms, and the people sitting like fish awaitng bait, gulping hours from the aquarium wherein their lives swam.

I prefer the sunsets, the smell of rain–pungent, irreplacable; and the way live oaks turn in the evening winds; the feel of macadam under my running shoes; and lights from the heavens.

All one must do is attend. To the proper things.