Cracked Window

I see her every day, part of the movie flickering past my window.

Driving an electric scooter chair, she talks to herself, occasionally gesturing as if stressing a point. The woman is among a cast featuring bicyclists galore, women carrying yoga mats, kids chattering to and from school, a United Nations of leashed dogs, and speeding cars I imagine reducing to embers if only I had a rocket launcher.

I watch this cavalcade from my home office, habit of an easily distracted mind. Who is this woman beneath a stocking hat, scanning the terrain for empty cans and bottles? As she whirs into view this morning, I see that her white dog with the doll-like face, usually peeking from her sweater, is missing. But tiny bears and other stuffed animals swing from her handlebars.

The other can collectors scouring Irvington, my Northeast Portland neighborhood, blend into the urban backdrop and pique no curiosity. Their travel patterns are either irregular or don’t register with me. This woman zipping past is an unnamed star in my window movie, worthy of top billing should it end and credits roll.

My latest landscaping project, completed as Hillary Clinton endorsed Barack Obama: