One thousand steps to coffee

When I think of trees as anchors holding the world together, rather than stone, it feels like I'm onto something. At least it's a way of being positive rather than negative, even though trees are dying much faster than stones these days.

Yesterday one of the McGee sisters found a robin's egg. It had fallen beside the walking path. She thought she'd found a piece of turquoise, and picked it up. The wet little head of the baby robin struggled up through the shell. I imagined its mother saying, "I'm pushing you out of the nest before you're even born," a bird version of tough love, but the mother was nowhere to be seen.

That was yesterday. Today I'm walking for coffee. It's early. Both my knees sing to me as I walk. It's like my knees are testing me to see if I'm listening to my body. I'm not crazy about what's on their playlist, but what can I do? It's not Pandora, I can't change the music by pushing a button.

The girl behind the counter at Peets has a tattoo on her neck. She'd be much prettier without it, the tattoo kind of ruins everything. I order a pound of Major Dickason, ground for a cone filter. "A pound of Major D, she  says, "awesome." 

Walking home, the pound of coffee under my arm, I see on my device that I've already walked over 1,000 steps. I could post the achievement on Facebook, but I won't. Only things marginally interesting are ever posted on Facebook.