Treasure box at the National Portrait Gallery, Washington, DC.
You had crashed outside my office, and I scooped you up, away from all the concrete and spats of ancient gum. Mountain mint, ironweed, nothing seemed to appeal, and yet you look so young…. This is all I can do: bring you to a wild place and wish you whatever peace is possible.
Summer evenings have often echoed with people down by the bandshell singing along with Trout Fishing in America. We’d pack a picnic, invite friends of all ages, and plunk ourselves down on the slope for a splendid evening of laughter, food, song, fireflies, and indiscriminately-applied bug repellent.
Oh, and some guy who liked dancing with a stick.
But I digress. Here is today’s view out the window: