He runs down the hill, always in a hurry, running to an unknown destination, his dark waist-length hair flying behind his ponytail.  He is not a jogger; he wears jeans and T-shirt, carrying a backpack.  You would think that he has managed his time by now so that he doesn’t need to run every morning.  Yet as I walk up the hill to work, there he is flying by again. 

Today he looks at me with curiosity.  Does he know?  Does he know that I want to trip him as speeds by me?  Does he know that I want to pull his ponytail back so that his head pops back in surprise?  Does he know that I want to laugh at his expense?  Someday we’ll both find out.