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.

--lindasinklings