On The Write Path

The park under the bridge.

The park under the bridge

9.

In a circle of men, a dog ignores the passing pipe, hacky-sack and hoops. Music wafts from the other side of the parking lot. Smoke rings the air. Too hot to move. Evening slows to a trot as old music gallops by. Breeze flutters bronzing maple wings. Half-a-moon hangs high in the hazy sky. Bird flit to soft chatter, a smile, laughter. Above green watered lawns, mountains loom losing thier color to drought. What purpose drives this Summer gathering? Nothing I can see or overhear.

© Kåre Enga 25.06.2015.

10. Sitting on a fish that doesn't move, I pet a white dog as a band sings to classic cars, weeds waving in the flow of warm water. Scant clouds hover over relentless heat; tomorrow it will be warmer, 100º. These fish will still be bronzing in the sun, still swimming up their gravel stream path past Ty of the mismatched socks, glowing tie-die shorts and floppy hat. He smiles with his wide blue eyes, an incredible, totally edible, Ty.

© Kåre Enga 26.06.2015.