The roses in the churchyard along the sidewalk are out late this year: salmon pink, elegant, and entirely incongruous in November. I stop, reach up, and pull one down to my face, and my nose fills with delicate fragrance.
The guy who was walking behind me catches up and passes me, and the waft of his cigarette mingles with the scent of the rose, not unpleasantly.
I’m thinking of these things as I continue walking, mulling them over for, perhaps, a poem, when a car honks, and I realize in my distraction I’ve walked out into the crosswalk with no regard for the light; I wave an apology and continue on my way.
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