Sunday morning is all hurry now, too, like the rest. All zip and zoom, the need to be someplace you're not, doing whatever you aren't.
And those slowed by a flow of sheep, an unnamed monastery open to the sky with broken stairs that lead no further than a fig tree?
Those who photograph sand bars when the tide is far out, and a blue fishing float, a steady track of small bare feet?
The unhurried pair of sisters with the Cairn Terrier named Poo Bah?
The retired geologist who ambled off to have lunch out in Chimayo, where bees hummed at the honey bear intended for the sopapillas? Who left the car in the shade afterwards and walked to watch the weavers and consider a handwoven blanket colored by dyes obtained from flowers, leaves, or insects, but ended leaving the purchase for another time? What of the group I thought I recognized, having martinis in real glasses on the Pecos River later in the afternoon, slicing green chile bagels to eat with good country pâté?
Another SUV roars past, not looking back, and I pull off on the quiet side road, tired of rush and its oblivion.
image: Dappled Grey
Katholiko or Gouverneto Monastery, Crete
Sandbars, Provincetown (Christie B. Cochrell)