We were all walking the lake.
Couples. Friends. Loners. The alone.
Conversations wafted through the air like glitter floating to earth.
If you don’t like it here, leave.
He can’t do that in the house anymore.
I don’t think I can handle one more week of the stress.
It’s not like they have the answer either.
Our lives. Our thoughts. Our concerns.
Walk. Run. Walk it. Talk it.
Then, there she was, on the path.
On one of those platforms beggars in India ride.
Progressing along the path with a flamboyant upsweep of her hand.
Down, up. Down, up.
Half a body perched straight upon the vehicle.
As if she’d been cut in two and glued.
Occasionally she’d stop, talk on her phone.
Geometric rings on her fingers.
Hair tousled. Maybe in her thirties.
Someone tried to engage in conversation.
Not available for inquiries.
The wonder of her.
The glory of her being midst the walk, the talk.