Lord Give Us Peas
The sun filled, cloudless sky, bursting blue to the horizons, its down-turned dome matching the up-turned bowl of the lake, filled to the brim with rain and run-off from small streams, continuing to drain hillsides soaked like sponges. Tentative riders, like ourselves, on a reconnaissance mission of rediscovery; rain changes much, however temporary. Even five days after the last fall, water flow and mud slicks force on the spot changes of plan, altered routes. Soupy mud spatters, sticky mud clumps, launching from rotating wheels where dry patches of earth, or pavement, allow speed to increase.
Above all Baldy, at a distance it appears might have shaken his shoulders, an overnight deposit of white upon the water, fading in the light. A lone sail glides sometimes, mostly bobs side to side among ducks, geese, and other fowl, a behemoth in the flotilla. Others waddle side to side along the flooded shore where picnic tables, submerged, resemble concrete piers above the water, lapping in a breeze, gentle as this morning. Elsewhere roadrunner speeds across the dirt road, thinking he is too fast to be seen, while small hawk flies low, and slow, surveying the ground for sudden movements, a late morning meal.
not the deepest I have ever seen, but no tracks went in,
and there didn't appear to be any exiting on the other side
really wanted to change a couple of those letters
it appears this pier's a dock