Still walking

A jetliner heads for Philadelphia at dusk.

I'm writing this on January 2, 2018, at 3:45 p.m. Soon I'll take my afternoon walk. I go at dusk, when the sun's dipping to the horizon, which in my suburban neighborhood means trees and houses not far away. 
When I walk in the morning, I walk in Valley Forge Park, which has broader vistas. I've avoided the park the past few days because of the snow—I don't need to risk a fall.
My walks in the afternoon are around a loop formed by two quiet streets. It's about a mile long. There are no traffic lights, few cars, and the best sight I get on those walks is the sky, the moon, and bare trees against the sky. 
I'm not walking for exercise—that's pointless now. I do it to see the outdoors in a way I won't be able to much longer, probably forever, given the likelihood that my sarcoma will kill me in a year or so. At times I make myself stop and just look. I look at the houses, the street and, of course, the sky. This is something I wouldn't normally do because I've always been self conscious and worried that people would see me as an eccentric man, stopping for no reason, looking up at nothing.
Now I stop whenever and wherever I want to, and just look.