At work there is a wood door and a glass wall that goes around. And the top and the bottom of the glass wall are transparent and the middle part, from about 3 to 10 feet, is translucent. I watch a procession of business casual ankles, ankles age twenty-something up to 70-something. Shirley makes her own clothes; her hems are immaculate. By four her ankles are swollen.

Marshall has an elegant saunter. Dianne slipped carrying the wine and water at church so her leg has a boot on it, and she moves slow. Stephanie's foot has star tattoos and bandaids on her heels. Sherry has lovely thin legs. And bunions. I know what sort of conversation to expect based on whose ankles approach.

Has the mail come yet?
Buzz me when my brother comes, he's got tickets for me.
Are you O.K. up here? We keeping you busy enough? Good, good.
It's so darn hot out there! Does that fan really do anything, or just make noise?

When I see Sherry's ankles coming I ready the headset for her, when Dianne's boot stomps forward I ready myself. These are all ankles and feet belonging to people who I have become familiar with, if not fond of, during my time as a fill-in receptionist/mail clerk at the office.

Old Walkerville.

Here in Windsor I hear an ice cream truck often and I see fireflies on a nightly basis.