Half Past Six

"There's something missing in this picture," a voice called out from behind the wall of a front screened porch, and I peered through the grayed barrier to discern the forms of a man and a woman with their morning mugs of tea or coffee.
My response was filled with a smile. "She's taking the day off."
It was just the note to keep me grinning through the steep uphill stretch that winds over the creek before bisecting corn fields.
I love this walk.  Every single morning it is work to get up and get out and begin moving.  For three years I have been rehabilitating with a faithful training partner and excepting the icy mornings, this is the route we take.
We are like clockwork.  And the world around us is moving on a daily pattern as well -- and we all fit together in coordinated community. 
At the start of our trek, the public bus slows in its approach and veers across the double yellow line, allowing safe passage on the 100 ft. stretch of state highway.  We can tell when the driver is on vacation because his young replacement doesn't know to expect us and whooshes past with a wake that nearly pushes us over.  But we are off that road almost as soon as we've begun, and the new one climbs with trees and rocks on both sides.  The occasional township pick-up winds carefully, watching for us beyond each curve and lifting a hand in greeting.
In all, five different vehicles usually pass.  Each one slows, moves to the opposite lane (more to demonstrate respect than a commentary on our girth) and gives that same morning salute.  One beat-up dark green truck is always barreling along until its owner spots us.  It often appears as if he is running late, but we are smiled and waved at just the same.  A white minivan passes both ways, and we have deduced that it is a short run to pick up a health care worker, since the passenger on the way back seems to always be wearing the same odd shade of green. 
Regularly, there is a banana peel lying at the broad curve just before the houses come closer together.  I've tried to guess whose breakfast was eaten "on the run" again.  The minivan owner does not seem the type to litter, even if it is biodegradable.
In addition to the motorists, a homeowner lets his yellow lab roam in the yard while he collects the morning paper.  The dog's name is Sparky (or something similar) and he won't bite, we've been assured.  The retired gentleman at the top of the hill just happens to be at the end of his driveway and lets us know if we're running late.  Over the course of three months we have seen the abandoned house renovated, and have congratulated the new owners on the spruced up yard, windows, shutters and front door. 
Today I needed to walk before sitting through church.  As I hiked the first mile and a half alone, I gratefully visualized my legs as strong machines that were propelling me upward and onward.  I distracted myself by following the antics of the bright golden finches among the brown stubs of last year's harvest.  No cars were out today and no one made conversation to ease the work load.  I internally negotiated turning around at different points, shortening the duration on this day so heavily overcast that it made my bones ache.  Then, at the three mile mark, that voice called out to me -- reminding me of my context on Walters Road in the early morning hours. 
Such a funny thing -- our regular lives, intersecting with other regular lives, are causing an impact.
I affect, just by living.  Each human being, whatever level of interaction they choose or eschew, is in community with their part of the world. 
And that thought makes me smile.