Golden Gardens

The teacup is too hot to lift. I have run out of distractions. It is only me and the blinking cursor now. From the ridge above Golden Gardens in the land of trees and mushrooms come these words tonight. It was warm and humid today. Sixty degrees in November. While the world was wet all around and the ground beneath my feet squished like a great green sponge, the sun shone. It seemed to be a passing moment, but it lasted for nearly an hour. Enough time to slip on my pink galoshes and march down the steps to the dog park. Blue responds to a rhythmic tugging on his collar and the jingle of his tags against the carabiner at the end of his leash. I am his sled. All one hundred and twenty five pounds of skinny girl. He’s gaining on me in size. But I put on my man voice to stay in command. Low toned and loud. Halfway down the ridge at the grassy clearing it was quiet. Then the sound of harbor seals barking. Inside the fence a giant mud hole and ragamuffin dogs became one. Rays of sun were coming down thick and lovely, warm and bright on these otherwise cold and dark November days. I sat on the picnic table next to the slab set with old silver bowls filled with water. The expanse of the clearing directly in front of me, and the ridge going up and going down to each side. Up to the house. Down to the beach. Where a high winter tide crashed onto the sand. A man battled a kite in a updraft of wind. The sun dissappeared and rain came down suddenly.

The trees are shedding their leaves in great masses.