As the day rounds itself in for a close, down
by the Connecticut, the wind is chilly and brisk, so that when you step out
onto the path that follows it's long winding causeway, you take a little care,
for certain.
Overhead, one quiet lone Mallard flies by, their
strong wings efficiently cutting into the air, as they purposefully make their
way to their destination.
Down below, bits and pieces of people, alone or
in groups, fondly traverse the familiar muddy trail, pointing out all of
the debris in the waters, from the most recent spring cleansing of the banks.
Gazing across the whitecaps, that even we, far inland, have ,at times.
Here ,in this place of rushing waters and blustering wind and the far off
treetops waving in the breeze, each of us in our own place remembers being in
places like this.
As we slowly go about the ending of our day,
either collapsing and finding
something or anything to eat,
or going about quietly making things right, and then leaning in
to Friday's
end.
