Changes

No wonder we search for it

All our days. No wonder

We seek just a glimpse of it

And, catching that glimpse,

Are changed.

Gregory Orr

The first man crossed over the road quickly—a brief head-turn to gauge my distance and speed—and onto the other side in plenty of time. The second man, not looking up, rushed awkwardly into the street just as I was approaching, causing me to tap my brakes and slow—not so much that I came to an abrupt stop, just enough to shoot a small jolt of adrenaline into my body. I turned my head to watch him as I passed, flushing in anger, surprised to see he was lugging a full grown raccoon on a pole; it was hanging by its neck, caught in some sort of noose. The raccoon was twisting back into the man’s body, both of them disappearing into the quicksilver of sunlight gleaming off the corrugated metal warehouse and the river behind. This explained the awkward rush and urgency: he was focusing on the matter at weighed-down hand. The next ten minutes spent navigating this on and off blaring light, made trickier by the narrow road, the approaching trucks, and the small frozen puddles laid out like mats at every driveway, turnoff, side road. There was just enough heat seeping in to keep me warm but awake. Awake enough to spot, coming upon a turn, another man tightrope walking along the railroad bridge. There he was—hooded, bent forward by a heavy backpack—suspended over me like an angel, backlit by sunlight, his breath puffing out of him in little train engine puffs. Then he was gone, and I was through the arches, and for a moment I lost track of what just exactly I was doing and where I might be headed.