It's the nighttime, baby.

It's twighlight. This is where I live. This is what I do. I walk.

Or, at least for the past few nights anyway, with the temperature approaching comfortable. I put one foot in front of the other, trying to shake away the atrophy that's come from four weeks of playing hide and seek with a heat wave.

And it's wonderful out.

Free of office stress and silliness, I forget the magnitude of my workplace sins, like having the girth to end a sentence with a preposition. (What's that about! No one should do that! Not even the Lord above.) Instead, I can let my mind wander onto important things like bunkbeds, lilac and the hope that my mom enjoyed her birthday.

Harlan T. Bobo as my soundtrack, pinks and oranges on my pallet.

And I feel so terribly for those strange fools in cars at this moment. Worse yet for those locked deep behind Ziploc-ed windows, breathing conditioned air, while just outside their windshield is a whole lot of perfect, blowing right by 'em. They don't smell the charcoal near the park, nor the distinct scent of pot rolling out from a house adjacent the Mormon ward. But I do.

It's twighlight. This is where I live. This is what I do. I walk.