This morning my friend and I met out near the Hayward Shoreline for an early morning walk. The temperature was a crisp 43 degrees, but there was no wind.

            The path was dry, thanks to several days with no rain.

            The sky was a bit overcast, a thin layer of clouds creating an overall appearance of grayness. Not doom, thank goodness, but a feeling of dread. Fitting for our conversation began with a rehashing of all the political damage being done by the administration’s lackeys.

            We shared our concerns about the environment, health, Medicare, and worries about all the government employees facing uncertain times. Imagine being told to resign via email when the job market is tight. When your particular skills might not translate into a public-sector job.

            Tiny birds flew away when the crunching of gravel startled them. They didn’t go far: just enough to keep an eye on us.

            Storm damage was visible here and there. Scattered gravel from the extremely high winds we’d had the week before. The trail washed out wherever it traversed flat land. Near the bay, driftwood lay as if thrown by a giant, lining the edges of the trail like a low-lying fence, narrowing the width of the trail to about a foot.

            The tide was out, but the usual shore birds were no where to be seen. We crossed the first of two wooden bridges, just in time to see a pair of ducks swim by. They seemed at peace, gliding along without a care in the world.

            We watched them for a bit, enjoying the waves that surrounded them as they swam, their reflections in the relatively still water.

            We’d been coming to this spot for several years now.

            When the pandemic hit in 2020, we’d been hiking in a local park. The trails were steep, going up and down rolling hills bordered by tall trees, that in spring and summer, gave needed relief from the sun. And because the paths were wide, at no time did we violate the “six-foot separation” recommendation.

            But we’re both five years older. Our bodies can no longer take the brutal climbs.

            So when my knee began giving me problems and my friend’s feet hurt as well, we switched to the shoreline park. The trail is completely flat, dirt and fine gravel the entire loop.

            It’s hard to hear the crunch of gravel as we walk, for we keep up a steady stream of conversation the entire time. We jump from topic to topic, sometimes sharing stories about family, then jumping back to politics, then moving on to pool happenings.

            I used to be able to walk the entire loop, about ninety minutes altogether, but since I injured my knee, on top of having long Covid, most days I can only make it to the end of the second bridge before turning back.

            How to tell that a person is a good friend? She’s supported me, walked with me, no matter how little I can do.

            At some point the sun broke through the clouds. Our shadows now preceded us, a small reminder of how insignificant we really are in the grand scheme of the universe. We might have big ideas, but only have the ability to tackle one small issue at a time.

            Sometimes we can smell the bay, a distinct fishy odor, but not today. Sometimes we feel a slight breeze caressing our cheeks and necks, but not today. It was almost as if nature was taking a break, giving us a chance to simply enjoy being together.

            Just before we reached the final turn, I spotted a large white bird, standing tall. It was the biggest egret I’ve ever seen. I wanted to take its photo, but a fence stood between us, a fitting reminder that nature also gets a bit of privacy.