Today I sat in an oversized chair, drinking my gingerbread latte in a red cup. I tried to read Anne of Avonlea, but the words felt jumbled by the dozen conversations around me. Sales pitches, plans for BMW commercials, and the elderly couple talking about how difficult it was to find the kind of socks they like at Wal-mart now, because there were too many choices. I wasn’t feeling it.
I buttoned my red coat, tucked my kindle under my arm, and walked out. An hour and a half was all mine. I was beckoned by a particular wooden bench settled just down the way on the docks. A coveted spot on a warm summer night, but today, it was reserved just for me. The rest of the locals were tucked inside the shops and eateries, avoiding the chill. And in the quiet, I sat on the edge and let my boot clad legs dangle over the water.
I stopped and noticed.
Drooping branches hanging over the water, creating rippled, spiny shadows.
The sun peering through the murky layer of grey clouds, brightening the last color bursts of fall on a hill across the way. Renegade sea gulls circling the surface, swooping down and claiming dinner. A pair of ducks lurking near the shore, telling jokes and doing headstands.
The intricate etchings and shadows of the wood.
One particular yard with an abundance of trees, donned in greens, yellows, and even yellow-greens, Melancholy willows and prestigious oaks, and spunky, spiny, thin ones with their eager branches reaching for the sky.
A sailing club down the bay, practicing their curtsies, bending, and bowing in the cold November wind.
And I read,
Above the noise of selfish strife
We hear thy voice, O Son of Man.