This morning I went for my usual 45-minute walk, downgraded from a run by my slowly disintegrating hip. Anyway, glad that at least I can still walk, I set out with more than a spring in my step owing to a break in the hideous heat of the last few weeks. There was even a breeze! I had gone only about a quarter-mile when I became aware of a stone, or whatever, in my right shoe. I kept walking, not wanting to slow my pace, but the thing was annoying. I tried sliding it into the arch area, where I might not feel it too much, but still it was distracting. I stopped, untied my shoe and looked inside, expecting a pebble. It was a bug--a living, breathing creature I had inadvertently carried so far from his home. I felt bad about that, but was happy that at least he was still alive. I coaxed him out and left him running around the South Freeport Cemetery, and continued on my way. But I thought about that bug for the next mile or so, thinking it was odd that he was in there, and that he hadn't been crushed to death, and that he hadn't bitten me.
Before long I turned onto Park Street and there before me, in the road, was a woman's shoe. One shoe. A black velvet, high-heeled clog with a silver buckle and a wooden wedge heel. Standing upright in the middle of the road, as if it were posing for a fashion shoot. I looked around. There was nobody. No other shoe. No signs of foul play. I wondered how it had gotten there, and how come it hadn't been run over, and where was the other one. I continued on, leaving it undisturbed in case the owner returned, looking for it. But still, I thought, huh, that's odd: first there was a bug in my shoe, now there's a shoe in the road. What could it mean? Maybe something was about to happen, maybe these were omens, maybe bugs and shoes would come together and change my life somehow.
I finished my walk and waited for something else and nothing else came. There was just a bug in my shoe and then a shoe in the road. Maybe tomorrow.