Tuesday, September 2, 2014

bubble man.

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.


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