the wind was violet on the river: sudden flashes of delight that rolled sapphire to the shore. Sometimes the water resisted in a hundred points of gold. But mostly it went along with it, slipping gently back to copper black green when the wind died.
There were tadpoles too, first noticed by their shadow. Then a lovely black lab, and finally a wag-tail.
Across the bank, one tree was taller than the rest: a thousand pink buds yearning against a blue sky.
This is becoming a habit: going down to the river after a funeral. I need the space to clear my head, let go of the story, find myself again after making a holding space for other people’s emotions. And today doubly so, for the man was too young — leaving children without a father, mother and father without a son, and a widow who should be in the midst of busy joyous years.
And now, as a nod to the holiday weekend, I shall not pretend to resume work. I’ve fed the squirrels. The jackdaws are hopping, waiting their turn. Molly is catching a last pool of sunlight on the desk, and anticipating a lap.
A good day, even if born of pain.