Sitting on a beach chair,
by a modest lake,
on a seasonably mild summer day,
writing this…
Clouds slowly spread like vines,
growing across the powder-blue sky.
Ripples on the water –
concentric circles of happiness,
emanating from so many points of splashiness.
In the sand, all around me
—surrounding me—
lines,
and footprints,
and dunes in miniature.
Bodies of all shapes,
and sizes,
and colors,
and ages,
and degrees of swimsuit coverage,
mill about,
with unseen purpose,
like weekend ants.
A circling hawk.
Speeding sparrows.
A lone crow perched on the longest limb of a dead tree,
on the opposite shore,
surveys (stoically) the peculiar little wet things
romping about in the dark blue expanse below.
Something hornet-like hovers in place for a few moments,
a few inches above one particular patch of sand,
then zips away,
then returns,
and repeats the cycle
about a dozen times.
Now and then a cool breeze caresses and cools the sun bathers,
while the water lilies shiver and chuckle in place.
Paperback books pepper the sandscape.
Some are held in laps, like precious little things.
Others hug them like teddy bears,
while
Zzz-Zzzs dissolve above their heads.
And there are those lost in the pages of the moment,
wondering what the next turn will bring.
A continuous mix of voices rises and falls,
constantly stirring the conversation stew.
Bits and pieces of daily lives arrive out context to my ears,
becoming the characters and stories in my mind.
And what must they think of me?
The sunglassed man in a beach chair,
with paper and pen,
writing intermittently (though intently),
with a wry smile.
© Copyright 2009 Christopher V. DeRobertis. All rights reserved.
