Afternoon at Red Lily
Mid-October – at my favorite vineyard for a writing workshop.
Strolling down to the sandy beach by the river, balancing my glass of Red Lily Girl, I 
settle down on the big bench at the large pine table. I love the warmth of my Alpaca wrap; it keeps me nice and toasty. ‘Write a vignette from the prompts you wrote down earlier!’ is the writing assignment.
I am listening to the river as it gurgles beneath the bridge that, like an amplifier, magnifies and mixes the sounds from the water and the cars crossing it on the bridge, their tires clanking as they roll over the gaps in the concrete slabs.
My neck stretches in the warmth of the afternoon sun, relaxing the tense muscles, a reminder of my accident … still healing.
A bee decides to rest on my shoulder near my ear. It takes off, buzzing away to more promising nectar.
Gentle ripples on the river’s surface tell the tale of the wind, increasing, reaching, sifting through, and pulling down the leaves towards the water where they dance and twirl like polka dots on a dress at the harvest dance.
The sun decides to hide and clouds, heavy and dark, release the rain. A dark brown, brittle oak leave joins the dance of the raindrops as it settles on the water’s surface and then it drifts off.
The reflections of red umbrellas above picnic tables framed by towering broad-leaf maples that were so crisp and clear when I arrived, slowly dissolve in the rain. The peaceful image gives way to a disturbance that mirrors our unsettling times.
Hiking Poet 