Down By The Lake

On Saturday I had some errands to run. I was walking in a direction I don't normally go, when suddenly I remembered, "The lake is nearby." (Officially, it's called a pond, but for me it's certainly big enough to be a lake.) "How close is it? Do I have time?" I was somewhat undecided - but then I looked to my left and saw it.

Walking along a four-lane city street, looking down a side road and seeing an expanse of blue, sparkling water that seems to fill the horizon. Some people might be able to walk on by, but not me.

It's been a while since I was down there. They are doing some refurbishment - quite a bit of it was fenced off, but right down by the water, three new benches were accessible, and I took one.

The sun was shining almost directly into my eyes. Soon I closed them. Sitting with your eyes closed next to a lake is not the same as sitting with your eyes closed any place else. You'd think it would be, but it's not. I could hear sounds of the city, but faintly. It seemed to me that I could smell the water. And when my eyes were open, all I could see was water, sunlight, trees, and houses among the trees. There's a small, tree-covered island in the middle of the lake. Evergreens, mostly.

After a while I got up. Walked along just a little way, into the shade. Leaned on the fence (this one was ornamental, black iron, not part of the renovation) and looked at a pair of ducks in the water. The smell of water is stronger in the shade . . . smell of mud, smell of cold.

Then I walked back up the street, four blocks, back into the city.