Tuesday, September 18, 2007

Yesterday, a crystalline moment:

Fading sun, about an hour of daylight left, sun riding low above the trees. My broad-brimmed canvas hat shades my eyes as I recline in a chaise lounge by the road in front of the house. Rich golden light touches the high trees and road, painting early fall. Paused in my reading, I look out over the pond, water five feet down from a leak, low and cool in late afternoon shade. Except for a single large patch of sand opposite me, grey mud rings its perimeter, narrow on the steep slopes, wide in the shallows. Two urchins, my two, have dragged a small red and white cooler and a red wagon into the bare and slimy bottom on the other side and are picking golf balls of imprecisely known origin out of the muck. With mud flying, ernest chatter, turned unintelligibly into babbling from the hundred yards distance, narrates the adventure, the joy in which is palpable where I sit smiling in silence.

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