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.

Etiquette.

As a general rule, it is not polite to put your toenails in your purse. It is, however, often more polite to put them there rather than somewhere else. Garbage cans are completely acceptable always. But it is never polite to pick your toenails.

Where the watermelons grow

After work she said, "Where'd you park?"

And I said, "Down by the Bay."

That one was lost on her, I think.

I drove home and listened to track five once more before turning off the CJSW cd for at least another day. That is my song of the summer, and I'm not sure what it's called. The woman whose voice I've been singing along with has actually been a man's voice all along, maybe. This summer, so far, is marked by driving, not riding. I've turned in my Bianchi for my mother's Caravan. That is this summer, so far. I graduated, turned older, dunked my head into the speed river, and made resolutions, again: this time "stay sassy" was one of them.

Too Early or Too Late

I want to go to a cottage in the winter now.

Nature Bingo

I sar' a muskrat the other evening. Maw made me make soup and I made that soup good. Then I called her up for supper (oh how the tables have turned) and we ate it in front of our big windows. Then, to my delight, I sar' the little devil. I shouted "Lookit!" Maw ran for her glasses. I got the binoculars. He was gathering a bunch of grass in his mouth. He swam with it. We went for a walk later that night, maw and I, and scoped out the muskrat holes.

Chukar and/or Rock Partridge

I sar' one of 'em on my street. I chased it. It ran. Made my days.