Kicking a Rock

 It was a nice, crisp, cool, fall morning, when I headed up the street toward work.

Wait.... this is August in D.C.   (I certainly have enjoyed this summer with almost no really hot, humid weather, but I digress.)

A couple of blocks from home, I came across a small rock in the street - perhaps an inch long with squareish sides.  So, of course, I gave it a kick.  It skittered along in front of me.  So I kicked it again, expecting that it would take off in one direction or another and bound into a yard or a storm drain.

But it seemed to always carom back into my path, so I changed the game to see how far up the street I could make it.  After a bit I felt a bit like a little kid, walking along a dusty street in a small Kansas town, kicking a rock ahead just for the fun of watching it tumble and roll.  It occurred to me that others, walking, jogging or cycling up the street, might think me a bit odd - but if they did, they dealt with my childish behavior by pretending to ignore it.

Then I hit a stretch where each kick did send the rock off course, but by that time I was committed to the game, so I fetched the wayward stone out of the grass or from underneath a little brush pile in the gutter, and continued on my way.

The little rock made it to work with me, and is now sitting in my pack, waiting for another round of the game.