Although my school district has completed its school year, the district that my sons attend is still in session. I've taken advantage of this today by going to the University early to complete research on a paper that is due before the month is over.
It is a beautiful June day, clear and warm. I decided to save money on parking fees in one of the city parking garages and park about a half a mile or so away in the parking lot of a city park fronted by a river.
I loved walking over the river bridge. It has both a pavement walkway and an iron-work-type of walkway. I chose to walk over the iron-work. The river was glinty-green against the black of the walkway. Lovely.
At the end of the bridge, there is a crosswalk. There is a traffic light there; the street to cross is a one-way street of several lanes.
The crosswalk has a pedestrian signal, indicating when it is safe to cross the road.
The signal is two images. One is an orange hand, depicted in the classic traffic-cop signal that says "stop" (but that for some time now also can be interpreted as "talk to the hand"); the hand glows steadily and cool, as if someone had made it from a Lite-brite toy. The hand is silent. The other image is the stick-figure-type of a single walking figure. The figure is white. It also glows in the same Lite-brite manner as the hand; however, it does not do so steadily. It blinks: on, off, on; and does so until the orange hand reappears. The figure is not silent. As the image flicks off, on, off, one hears the sound of a chirping bird.
As the hand glowed, I stood waiting, happy in the sun with the river glinting and moving behind me. An old man finished crossing the bridge and he took his place on the curbside as well. The bird began to chirp and we moved together across the road. What a simple and beautiful thing.
I've finished printing the necessary scholarly, peer-reviewed articles. I will now wade through the pile, dear reader, and thank you for your help to me, aiding me in this thing that is the practice of writing.