The Rambler, Midsummer

When his legs won't let him sleep, he gets up with the first light and packs his bag. They won't know that he is gone until they rise to breakfast, and then they'll talk about him over eggs and sausages. He will already be a mile down the road, walking at a leisurely pace, the grass still cold with dew, the day heating up one songbird at a time. Tiny frogs will dive out of the road ahead of him, or crickets, or early grasshoppers. There is no radio music, just silence broken by his footsteps on the crumbling shoulder, or the occasional chorusing milieu of life in the reeds of a drainage ditch, smelling of rot mixed with fresh wildflowers. Not much in his bag, really. Just a couple reminders of events falling behind him, girls he has loved, and temporary homes.