Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow: A sonata of words in four parts. Part I: Never enough time

I was walking to school one brisk, chill, autumn day. Towards the end of my walk I always cross the park (or "common," as it's called) and that little interlude almost always instills in me a sense of peace found in few other places. The walkway is uneven red brick and there are plenty of trees and grass and open space -- a built in respite from the harsh, fast-paced city life. On this one particular day -- I suppose it must have been early in the afternoon -- the common was loosely populated; a few people passing through, some sitting on benches, others out on the grass. I was halfway across when a dark brown average sized dog shot across my vision like an arrow. My first reaction was to remark to myself just how arrow-like the dog's rush was. My second thought, following the first within the same instant, was to wonder what it was bolting after, and my gaze followed the dog's path, which led to the base of a tree. My eyes caught the flicker of movement as a squirrel darted up the trunk only far enough to be out of its pursuer's reach. The dog, whose momentum had carried it past the tree for only the slightest moment, had adjusted its movement quickly and stood now with its forepaws a little ways up the tree, eyes intent on the squirrel. I saw no more of this scene as I passed by, but as I continued my jouney to school, I breathed in the cool fresh air and smiled to myself.