This might be one now, coming up through the heavy shrubs where Cottonwood Creek runs under the one lane bridge at the edge of the park, scratching his scalp, buttoning his top two buttons.
Or maybe like me, he’s just out early on a Sunday morning mission, taking some air on this last day of winter.
I’m still wearing last night’s rumpled hair and haggard face, but I’ve come out to look for crocuses planted years ago by someone else, poking up through last fall’s unraked leaves.
And I see not much has changed since I was a boy in another town in a state far east of here. I know a narrow path leads back through sprawling roses and barberry bushes, then on down a rocky embankment. I remember the thorns, the cool bitter taste of the leaves.
And the time I first went down, despite all the warnings, in the heat of summer, to take my hard consolation alone by the stone fire circle, the dirty magazines and flattened cardboard boxes, where nothing grew.