Hot Flip Flops
Yesterday's walking took a spell in the river, wading out neck deep, to stand; eye level with a swimming Dog; watching the blip of fish snatching gnats; the linger of centric ripples; under the snaky outcrops of root. The water was invisible: was only the reflection of tree and sky: was only the beads on bared legs.
Yesterday's wet clothes sway on the washing line.
A dry walk, today, for no particular reason. Heat speeds up molecules: slows a walk. We average an ambling pace, stopping our legs once for strawberry picking, once for rose petals. We dare not be too still though, lest we be baked like terracotta, left decorative but brittle.
At home it is pleasant to sit, flip flops kicked off, in the umbrella shadow: a mistake to slip those dark soled sandals back on. Cartoon hopping in hot flip flops wakes the cat, who; of course; has been sleeping all day, content in the shade of a garden table and the cooling roots of grass.