Magic

Choppy Water

A few ambitious branches glow
burnt umber, crimson and a
golden shade seen on parrots

We paddle through choppy water

Most trees lining the shore cling
to late August greens, dull and
forlorn as summer winds to an end

We paddle through choppy water

Our canoe is heavy with camping things
And firewood, for flames and pondering

We paddle through choppy water

A lone loon flies low
Parallel to the water’s surface
A precise, effortless distance
There is no flapping, simply
Levitation with forward motion
Isn’t that magic?

We paddle through choppy water

Now, an island’s fancy greeting
A rocky shore with full moon rising
Laying a glistening water runway
Bathing our canoe in moonlight

A tent, an island, a sweet retreat

Solo Saturday

A solo Saturday morning.

My tired body is strewn across a comfy chair, left leg draped over its soft arm. I’m dragging last night’s sleeplessness in heavy lidded half-mast eye slits, while I languish in my sore throat’s swollen scratchiness and feel sorry for myself for missing a festive friend weekend.

Suddenly, streaming sunbeams from high windows wash my bare legs with warmth and light as our sweet cat purrs nearby.

With a newly buoyed happy heart, my solitary weekend of recuperation and rest ensues.

Magic

A beat-up red Toyota passed me as I turned right out of the Smoothy King. It rattled straight for the dead end with resolute intention. A scrubby barrier loomed straight ahead. On the other side a magical place. It’s true. I’ve been there. For a minute I imagined the bespectacled boy determinably pushing his luggage cart straight toward the brick wall. Track 9 3/4. I glanced in the rear view mirror hoping for magic. If the shaky car had disappeared I’d have burst with joy. And hope.