Waiting To Leap
A swift time spent outside, today. One chicken must be flurried from under the car, before the short drive to school. Boy takes his folder of photographs, goes to wave the usual laconic 'bye: one odd insect nestled in the passenger window frowns at the cold air, interrupts. We peer at it. It has that waiting to leap feel about it, as crickets do: is a bland khaki colour; sits still as a carving, big eyes boggle either side of its big head.
'It's going to be one be of those days,' I say.
I forgot the banks open late, so after placing my car at a vaguely parked angle; the insect staring balefully after me; around the tiny cold town I walk. Too cold. Hot coffee will help. One window seat, one Americano. An extravagance, really. Civilised and privileged.
I have money: it needs to be paid to the bank when the doors open.
When the coffee cup is empty, I walk to the bank. When my purse is emptied, I walk back to the car. The insect is elsewhere. It could be anywhere, I think, which reminds me of Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle.
Which I understand in a rather basic and creatively misappropriated way.
'One of what days?' I ask of myself.
One of my days.