Photo by Greta Unetich
The water’s edge draws us closer. Plumes of dried, browning teasel, marsh grasses, and goldenrod stand tall above us as we crouch over the shore, just barely waving in the soft ripples of wind. Small raindrops touch the lake’s surface, each one barely making it the far distance from the sky. The season’s last English daisies and asters wilt at our feet; the first sign of November. I part from the bank and stand smooth against your back. The last light touches first the weeds, then your hair, then my face. We both turn to the patch of brittle plants behind us, where you watch the season’s first black-capped chickadees clasp onto the stems with their tiny claws. No day is as good as the days we walk here.
Just as still as the air, we stand for a couple of quiet seconds, and continue walking.
Kindergarten 