"Why are you wearing that weird hat?" asked our neighbor's six year old daughter from our cul de sac.
"Because it's my hat," I replied.
We were heading for a walk around the neighborhood. Deep blue skies, my favorite flat-bottomed "airplane" clouds (in squadrons in all directions), and gusty wind bending the trees made me feel electric. Dust devils twirled leaves like dervishes up the streets. Silence alternated with sudden roaring onslaughts, driving thousands of leaves toward and around us like a stampede. Crows were flung over our heads, tacking strongly in the unpredictable gale, concentrating hard, no playfulness, carefully above tree height. The sun grew more golden every minute as our shadows lengthened on the long walk, and we talked and gestured and laughed and were the pair that make neighbors smile as they drive by; the tall dark bearded guy and the short curvy blond, hair flying, as completely into each other as two teenage lovers.
In my weird hat. The hat I've had since my teens, when I bought it because, as a four year old, I thought all artists wore red berets. And with my dear heart, the love of my life, who will walk around with me in my weird hat.