There was the bridge over the river or the inlet and we were walking in Providence, Rhode Island.

Sometime John had an old girlfriend, a short pale girl with strawberry blonde hair the color that is close to that of apricots. I don't know what color eyed. Her current boyfriend was really into Navajo language(s) and knelt in the graveyard, picking up the old stones no more than an inch thick, tall and narrow, resetting them in their proper places. Denim and dust. He said something.

It was all in a very practical series. Breath regular and comfortable.

This is difficult because of the placement of the grass versus paveway, and how there was no story but a series of motions. We walked up away and over the bridge. Again.