No soft shoulders

On my walk to the lake it was definitely May, with a thin film of fog and many colors beneath. The pink cherry blossom blooms thrown down like confetti — the robins and rabbits, all the sights and sounds of spring that otherwise fall flat from fall to winter. By the time I got to the lake it was rubbed out by fog, Scottish looking — and I imagined an old castle in the middle, on a pile of rocks. But there was just a lone fisherman in a boat, the cover of a book.

This post is for my mom, who’s just flown back to Germany today. Also to commemorate our return home to the States this time, two years ago.

About pinklightsabre

Bill Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
This entry was posted in musings, prose and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

13 Responses to No soft shoulders

  1. Mr Ram says:

    so nice of you… and this post… amazing.. and this path and location silently saying something… you such don’t think so?

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Your photo? Terrific. Hard to make dark photos work, but this one does.

    Recalling a song by (I think) Julian Cope… “No hard shoulder to cry on…”

    Liked by 1 person

  3. ksbeth says:

    the fog, the floral confetti, the fisherman – all different textures, like a mixed-media painting

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Lynn Love says:

    Beautiful Bill. You convey the sense and sights of the place so clearly. Just lovely

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Dave Ply says:

    Fishing in the fog
    Rocks loaded for a mission
    Building a castle


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