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.

Categories: musings, prose

Tags: , , , , ,

13 replies

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

    Liked by 1 person

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

    Liked by 1 person

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


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