rush hour

this morning is one of those good, cool mornings full of jackets and sweaters and small girls in new wool tights. we are walking, the low dog and i, in the morning rush to work and school. people step out of little cafes with steaming coffees and their shoes clatter on the iron treads of the steps down into the subway. some of them still have real live folded paper copies of the times wedged under their arms.

the low dog strolls through the brightness with his lizard, charming the distracted and the sleepy and the grumpy, all. people shake off their subway personalities to coo and squeal and giggle. small children wave at him. adults wave at him. even at this hour people want to say how much they think he is too much. he ignores them, does not care.

we stop at an intersection a few blocks from home and stand next to a man and his little girl. the light is long and the girl is singing in her littlegirl voice. bright copper kettles and warm woolen mittens. now, if you know me you know i've considered scraping together all the couch change i can find to buy the rights to that song and then lock the thing away somewhere so i'll never have to hear its smarmy, pollyannaish carousel of treacle again. but her voice is so soft and so clear the song sheds most of its ugliness there for a second. she stares straight ahead, into the wide intersection. she is very serious about this song. she does not even see the low dog inches away from her left hand, staring, just like her, straight ahead.

i look up at her dad and am surprised to see him running his thumb across the face of his phone, checking a message, reading the news, ignoring his child. it seems to me if i can manage to find this moment charming then that man, her very own father, ought to be able to put his stupid phone away for now and focus his stupid self on his softly singing child. she falters with a word or two and he stares hard at the phone, then sings quietly cream colored ponies and crisp apple strudel. he asks if this is right and when she nods they sing it together. because i have been sick i hear three-color ponies. he trails off and she continues with bells and schnitzel and then pauses. he is squinting against the glare on his phone to read the next line of the song and then he sings, low but loud enough for her to hear, wild geese that fly with the moon on their wings. and now i feel bad for considering punching him earlier. his voice is like hers, quiet but clear and the few words drag all the geese i have ever seen up into the sky.

the light changes and we cross. the man, the little girl, the low dog and me. two boys climbing on a coin operated dinosaur call to the girl. guthrie turns his lizard-stuffed face to a man who begins to laugh and nudges a friend. maybe there are some geese flying overhead.