A Silent Summer Walk

A summer Thursday morning, 6:00 a.m.
Walking with my friend, Arnie, on my left,
the South Platte River and Denver skyline to my right.
Everything is right here.  
Everything.
I sometimes think I hear
the sound of a train or the song of a bird, but it is really
One Alive Sound of
TrainSquealingGrindingHighwayTrafficDinningRed-WingedBlackbirdTrillingWaterFallingArnie’sFootstepsRhythming.

We pass dogs leading people with leashes.  
Bikers announce, “On yer left.”
The newborn sun silhouettes runner on bridge.

Arnie and I don’t talk, and neither do most of the people passing us.
It’s a no-talk kind of morning.

On a grassy hill, five or six people lie motionless,
bedded down in red and khaki sleeping bags
despite the noisy yawns and complaints of a city waking up.
I am an uninvited guest in their bedroom,
witnessing them in their most vulnerable state
as their Earth Mother cradles them.
So very intimate.

A summer Thursday morning, 6:00 a.m.
It is all happening, like a choreographed dance.
And everything is right here.
Everything.