One Hundred Fourteen

A couple of days ago, after getting home mid-morning from my pottery class, I sat watching the eighty-five-year-old man next door blow leaves and pollen off his driveway.  Even before he came in view with his leaf blower, I saw bursts of yellow dust rise from the concrete. The day before, he and his wife washed their car on the same driveway. Those people do not sit around; they engage the world around them.