June 5, 2024:

Wounded Warrior Sidewalk Club: wheelchairs in lines and circles, sociable in shade below swaying California Sycamores.

Ozzie: loud. Clouds clouds clouds clouds of pungent weed. Missing limbs and high as fuck: wheels locked alongside the riverbank.

One chair is elaborate. Motors, flags, gold rims, a CB radio antenna behind the headrest. "Sweet ride, dude," says your sociable narrator. Everyone laughs. I'd ask to hang with them, but I don't like weed.

June 4, 2024:

Tiny thing in lavender onesie has her own soccer coach. Target nets for practice, a trunk filled with soccer balls, balls where they landed all across the green. Patiently aligning her toes, pointing to the net.

Her father? A hired trainer? She's blonde northern, he's swarthy Hispanic. Who knows?

She runs, she laughs, she kicks and misses. I'm still smiling, an hour later.

June 3, 2024:

Wounded warrior wheelchair in the shade. Chair back feet up, reclined beneath trees. Blasting Ozzy Osbourne for all the world to enjoy.

Radio controlled airplane. Ducks, weaves, barrel rolls over my head. Boys? Nah! Retirees! Alongside their parked camper van just kissing the riverbank, where the difference between men and boys is, as they say...

On the green: kindergarten soccer club, already better than I'll ever be.