It was bright today. Warm. One of the last summer...

It was bright today. Warm. One of the last summer days of this year, I imagine.

I was walking along a road, wheeling my bike alongside me, when I noticed an elderly black man just ahead. He was dressed well - a suit, hat, and shined shoes - and he hummed and sang a little as he walked.

I tried to catch snatches of his singing and humming, slowing to do so. I guessed he was east-African - Kenyan, perhaps, or Ethiopian. If I had to guess I’d say he was singing in Swahili, but I don’t know. I wondered how long he’d been here, where he was going to. He seemed to be enjoying the sun as much as I was, basking when he paused at a pedestrian-crossing.

He stopped, then, on the sidewalk, forcing me, following him surreptitiously to enjoy his company, to pause as well. He seemed to be staring, I thought, at a small group of elderly people across the road. They were sat on chairs outside a small church - some smoking, others just chatting. They seemed content.
He ceased humming then, and, stood there in the pleasant sunshine, observed them silently for a moment.
He then slowly raised his hand and, with no great ceremony, began flipping them the bird.

He stood there quietly, middle-finger extended, for a solid half-minute. Like a soldier on duty.
People walked by. Continued on their way.
I stood behind him, transfixed.
I doubt the group across the road could see him but if they did, they chose not to respond, continuing instead with their smoking and talking.

He slowly lowered his hand then, took the measure of the sidewalk ahead of him, and continued along his way, singing and humming. Enjoying this last summer day.

There are heroes among us. Small ones, perhaps, with triumphs that are mostly personal and serve no real purpose other than to act as examples.
And some of them, I think, are old, and hum, and dress well, and are possibly Kenyan.