I'm restless.  The house is quiet, sunshine streaming dust motes in the lazy hours of early afternoon.  The Chief lies down for a nap.  I try to persuade him it would be more fun to play.  He declines as he reclines.  I abscond with the keys.

The big white car envelops me.  I feel as if I am driving a behemoth.  I need to get out, to stop moping about my children's departure and my  own wish to be safely on my way home. 

In my pocket, a small plastic Ziplock bag.  A happy orange jack-o-lantern grins at the prospect of treats not collected at Halloween but yet to come.  It contains home made yeast rolls, my contribution to the dinner Thusday.  They are a bit hard now, the brown tops still smelling faintly of butter, The creamy white crumb fine and reminding me of my Nana's rolls.  I inherited my ability to work with dough from her.  It seemingly skipped my mother.

I drive to the park.  A manmade lake, a puddle of a pond sits amidst the pines and parking lot.  A small wooden bridge arches over the murky green water.  A high spray of fountain circulates the muddied water, home to catfish, pan fish and geese.  There is some debris in the water, pine needles, bine cones the occasional shiny slick brown bough.  Here and there a bit of plastic from a bag or bottle belies the laziness of former users unable to make that last bit of trek to the trash can.

I walk half way around the pond.  The sun mottles the ground, peeking out through finger branches of shadow.  I walk out of the cool, damp darkness of shade, one hundred eighty degrees to the sunny side.  I am looking for Grandmother catfish.  She is large and old, a true albino with pinky red eyes.  She glides out of the deeper density of the murk, eyeing me balefully.  I invite her in my mind to come forward and show herself to me.  She retreats into the shadows.  Not today.

At the cement platform above the culvert, I slip off my brown leather clogs and lower myself to sit.  I remove the fragrant bread from my plastic lined pocket.  I crumble it, rub it releasing crumbs onto the water and yeasty aroma penetrates the pores of my palms. 

Soon the water ripples and flips with the enthusiastic efforts of pan fish feeding.  They start close and then move out as the crumbs circulate out, following the draw of the fountains current.  To my right is a turtle.  I see by his jaws and feet that he is a baby snapping turtle.  He is sunning himself, taking advantage of these rays after yesterday's reptile slowing chill.  I give him a wide berth, for though I would like to come closer and see the pattern of the shell in which he lives, I do not wish to shorten his basking time because of my rude inquiry.

He eyes me warily, as far as his neck will allow.  When I am out of his peripheral vision I stop for a moment and study the leathery, khaki neck the muddy camoflague of the shell pattern.  Then minding my own business, I stride away to the car and home.

Blessings abound