I cycle harder to keep my hands warm, or, slower, sit upright, fingers in my back pockets. The air slips through jacket, through tree-covered streets, over broken pavement, around houses with shrubs arranged for a common effect. I pass a jogger delayed by his dog defecating on a leash. If I were to have an animal, I wouldn’t want to tie it up. I breathe deeply; I move along on quiet wheels. To meet you in the morning is my chief delight.
27 June 1985, Palo Alto