An Unforaged Squash
A tonnage of leaf from pale to brassy rustles like brushes on cymbals. The river silvers and suddenly a pumpkin is caught between two rocks. I want to fetch it but the water would flood my boots. I don't why I didn't take off the boots: to avoid the cold, in spite of adventure?
If I had reached it I would have placed it above flood level and wondered all year: will pumpkins then grow wild in the woods?
It was smooth and unsmashed so perhaps it was plastic. I would have brought it home to decorate the garden or tumble into a recycle bin.
Whatever the truth: I stood in the shallows, brimmed with marvel.