I’ve been wanting to walk along Cherry Creek where it borders the western side of the Golden Triangle. I set out Wednesday to do that, after dropping Todd off at the park-and-ride to catch the airport bus. (He’s in Baton Rouge today, having his six-week checkup. He said his right ear didn’t hurt at all during the flight.)

On the way, I stopped at Dozen’s to get tea, mostly to warm my hands, and passed Cherokee Dining. I was surprised to see the “Open” sign illuminated. A man’s arm was polishing the bar. I guess if I ever move to the GT, I know where to get my early morning buzz on.

I stood on the bridge over Speer and saw only one distant, dark figure on the creek path. Then I kept going, over to West High School, which is shaped like a big stone hug. Sunken Gardens Park fills the space between it and Speer. I took some shots of the school and walked down the concrete steps into the park, wondering how the land around Speer got so varied in height. Was Cherry Creek always so much lower than the street, or did the construction of the reservoir tame it into its current mild self?

Like a little kid, I balanced along one of the narrow concrete borders in the park. At one time it must have surrounded a lake. I wondered if West High now used it as a playing field. There was a basketball court at one end, heavily decorated with graffiti, and a Mennonite Church beyond it.

It was a peaceful place, despite the constant traffic along three lanes of Speer, and there was space enough in the open, sunken park to breathe out forever, a rare feeling in a city. I heard the bell ring in the school all the way across the park: 10 am.

As I crossed Speer and made my way to the concrete wall bounding this side of the creek, I spotted a homeless man, standing in a concrete alcove, arranging his belongings. He had a bright red blanket. I wanted to talk to him but was too chicken. When he noticed me, I finally turned away.

The sun came out, warming me, and dog-walkers and cyclists motored by across the creek, which gurgled and rushed some 10 feet below me. I balanced on the wall, feeling everywhere and nowhere the way I do on a plane.

At Bannock I crossed back to investigate the bright blue jungle gym. I can’t remember the last time I’ve swung on a swing set. The surface in front was speckled blue and spongy to match the paint job, and I bounced up and down on it, watching four teenagers around a table under the trees. As I walked by, I wanted to ask them why they weren’t in school. (Then I remembered I haven’t had a real job in fourteen years. Funny how, after so long, I still think of offices outside my home as more “real” than the one inside my home. I guess I should read more Dilbert.) One of the dark-haired girls was cupping her hands over a paper on the table. I told myself they were making some art.

It was getting late, I needed to check out the Native American Trading Company and get some lunch at Le Central. I battled the fierce wind up Bannock and found myself staring into the window of a building marked “Civitas.” Sounded like a nonprofit, but then why do they have a car and a motorcycle in their lobby?

I’m still not sure, but I liked this line from their website: “We value the richness, diversity, and vibrancy of cities.”