At the first crossing, I turn toward the shade.
There is no errand to justify the direction. For once, the route can be decided by something as slight as a tree, an open gate, or the sound of water beyond a wall.
At first I carry the unfinished day with me. Replies arrange themselves into sentences. A problem from the morning repeats its familiar argument. The body keeps walking while the mind catches up.
A few streets later, I notice a shop being painted. Someone has moved all the chairs outside. The world is busy with tasks that have nothing to do with mine.
I return by a different road. The list is still waiting, but it has become one part of a larger day.