Mira and I walk at Kakiat Park. The rain-swollen Mahwah River cascades under the bridge. It foams the rocky bank where a lone fisherman fishes. We turn onto the blue trail toward the tributary feeding the river. Or is it the river? The cold ground doesn’t mud our shoes like last time. We’re not copperheaded or water moccasined, either.
Across another footbridge, we turn right on the white trail and ascend toward the gas line and Harriman State Park. The first ridges of the Ramapo Mountains appear. We cross the grassy scar of the buried gasline and continue walking the trail into Harriman. It doesn’t gravel us back to the gasline; we reach one plateau before deciding to return along another gasline route.
There are worse ways to Sunday.
last April night
after a long meeting,
she misses me
for dVerse Poets Haibun Monday – Take a walk, pubtended by Bjorn
Real Toads’ Thirty poems in April: a final in verbs, imagined by Bjorn
#GloPoWriMo2018 / #NaPoWriMo2018 30/30