Fifty. Not feeling poetic, young or very old. It almost always rains on my birthday and this is typical, raining. I had walked less than three blocks from the Frankston Fire Department when the rain came. We happened to be next to a roadside building with an overhang carport, once a gas station, now a storage spot for a mustang, old rusty tow motor, a vintage Coke machine and a pile of nail riddled framing wood and scrap plywood. Leaves and dust from seasons of neglect covering the concrete pad. When I was a baby this probably was the hub of the neighborhood. I can imagine all the old fathers hanging about before work, big tail finned cars driving by. Things change. This old fork-lift is probably as old as me. There is more technology in this modern Ford Mustang than what on the flights the moon. My phone has bells and whistles I could never have imagined when I was making red clay plates to dry in the sun on an old log by the creek in Georgia where I caught my first crawdad'. That crawfish was so black it shined blue in the sunlight. The roads are soaked with rain, a soon as the cars spash some of the wet away I will walk away from my little moment of nostalgia. Several folks have stopped in the past few minutes and Nice (the dog) now has an extra bag of dry dog food and a few cans of wet to wash them down. I was given a breakfast sandwich by two pretty sisters. It may be wet today but it is already a beautiful day.
Walk today, it's a one man Movement-movement. You be "the man" and the movement.