The White Circle

Marching past the garden gate onto the neighborhood promenade, I refused to let confinement dull my presence. On the dark slate terrace beside the park pavilion, an errant cylinder of chalk lay abandoned—a crude fragment waiting for purpose. I seized the dry white stub with both gloved hands, knelt, and drove its tip into the slate with deliberate, theatrical weight. Scraping against the rough grain, I swept a continuous, razor-sharp white circle around myself, banishing all uneven grit beyond its border. Rising to my full height in the exact center of my new chalk spotlight, I flung my arms wide into a triumphant pose. The open air finally has its stage.