On my way to work, walking north on Kimbark, I passed a row of sprinklers (really just hoses with holes poked in them) to my left. The nine o' clock sun coaxed rainbows from the drops; they came into existence as I drew near and faded away again as I passed.
Last week, I stopped and waited at Woodlawn and 59th for a woman with a stroller to pass. The woman was older than of the mothers I see pushing strollers in this neighborhood. She looked stern and vigilant, but carried herself upright with a kind of pride. I wondered if the baby belonged to her, or if her proud suspicion was because it did not.
A couple days later, I saw another woman on Woodlawn. She was coming from work. Though her clothes were bright and pretty, her face was sad and because of this it stood from the rest of her, not in the good way but because it did not fit. I wondered about the existence of this discontinuity, the sad, cold face with the cheerful, carefully chosen outfit. Then, I noticed that in her right hand she was carrying a delicate fern, and I was no longer worried.