My Sunday Morning Walk began at four in the afternoon, and it was in fact, the second or third thing I did today. I woke up plenty of times, but it never felt right. Started feeling like a bad day. Then I saw Roy lose to a no-name and I felt alright. Headed out into the alley fresh from a shower and Girl of the North Country stuck solid in my head.
On the way to the bookstore, I found bricks stuck in old beige walls that were yellow. But they were more than yellow, they were putrid. They spoke of March and the new buds and the buds yet to be. They had that slightest earthen sunlit green, beneath this gray blank excuse for a Sunday. I got closer and spoke aloud. “No, they’re just yellow.” But before I could turn away my mind still believed they were more than yellow. If my camera hadn’t broke for good I’d have snapped and kept moving, certain I’d have captured the season in those bricks. So I stopped again and looked with the most discerning eye. I became aware of how strange I am. “More than yellow,” I proclaimed. And yet those bricks had been there for years and years. Old as the street.
Between the bookstore and the grocery, I saw other bricks. Deep red bricks lined with burnt citrus orange markings along their edges. White bricks with the lightest blue scuffs, the sort of blue you might confuse for gray. Yet blue for certain, blue like a violent spring sky. But my favorite were the first, the bud bricks, with the Marchiest yellow.