Light and heat lingering in the afternoon
we go walking you and I.
We have been this way many times before
out to sniff our local bushes.

Today your walk is stiff
right leg trailing just a bit.
an ache from the time you broke it,
jumping out the window

We travel the block to the grade school playground
your pace quickens for greeness ahead.
Our dream of unfettered wandering is near,
without a leash each can go our own way.

At the entrance I see them
all in white, immaculate against the wet grass.
A wicket has been set up
with trammeled turf defining the limits of the game.

I heard a story the other day
about Pakistani men in Berkeley, staying up every night
until four in the morning
to hear live cricket matches between India and Pakistan.

Here their white shirts and long pants
add a mysterious formality to a Davis playground.
We tread respectfully around their game
and leave earlier than usual.

There is the winnowing
the sieve of memory, time, and space.
My Davis self has brought you along,
upright ears and curling tail.
Walking hand in leash with you a
connection to where I was
am now.

They are in cricket whites
at Birch Lane Elementary
for a Sunday afternoon, our
origins refuse abrogation.