He stood at the edge of the pond in the early morning quiet, a battered white bucket at his feet. Slowly he leaned down, dipped and straightened. I watched as a bubble sailed from the rope he held, bounced twice across the surface and took flight.
Another followed. So wide it would be the span of my arms if I could catch it—I couldn’t.
I should take a picture, I thought. I could put it on Instagram.
But I just walked slower, and watched--and took another turn around the pond.
I could take a picture, I thought, and put it on Facebook.
But I didn’t.
‘They’re beautiful,’ I said instead.
The old man smiled.
I took another turn around the pond, watching color leap and bend and soar.
And let it soak into my spirit, tucked in the pocket of my soul.