Walking home from Metro last night, the air temperature so perfect it felt like there wasn’t any air there at all. I tried to pass through each stage of the walk as fully conscious as I could be: the trees that lace over the path before the tunnel; the joyful racket of cicadas; the houses busy with after-dinner errands, one man pulling out of a garage, another idling in one.

I crossed the street quickly. Other folks were taking the night air, too, a family of five, two young sons (twins?) and an even smaller girl in a bright pink dress. The mother stops to help the youngest tie her shoe. The father turns to see what’s keeping them. Meanwhile, the boys make it to the next corner. Wait, their parents say. Stop there.

And there are others out for the evening air, joggers and dog walkers. Everyone strides quickly; it is easy to do this evening. There is neither warmth nor humidity to stop you.

And so I make my way to the car. I know I’ve missed dinner, and it’s too early for bed. I’m glad to be moving through space, toward home.