At the place where the copse-tangled creek - deceptively untamed for the urban neighborhood through which it meandered - passed under the busy boulevard, he trekked through what he was tempted to call a culvert, though in fact it was technically a bridge. Walking on the lower edge of the ramp of concrete he was able, just barely, to pass through upright without stepping in the muddy, mossy water or banging his head on the concrete roadbed that trembled overhead with the motion of passing cars. Near the far side he saw that someone had spray-painted "skate" on the bridge support in angular, graffiti script, black with a red outline. A few yards farther ahead an overturned shopping cart in the creek bed was rusting badly and gathering quite a mound of moss as the water passed through. He enjoyed walking these city creeks for some reason. They made him feel in touch with something primitive or organic. They relaxed him. It's funny how little it takes. A few feet on either side can be like another world. Twenty feet away there's an office park, but somehow he's exploring the uncharted wilderness.
Hello, friends. I trust you're well.