I'm starting to think that the sign of an aging yearbook adviser is the constant craving for a theme. Not even a good one. Just a handful of words, tossed together like spinach and arugula, in the hopes that I won't have to remember too much to frame the moment.
Maybe that's why, halfway around Holmes Lake this morning, I found myself face to face with a summer's theme. I guess I needed half a lake and all those fishing poles, taut and hopeful, to nudge out a few words to identify this brand-new summer of mine.
"Make time," whispered the wind as it wended its way through my hair.
And so, I let myself get lost in the moment, swept away by the sight of vultures taking flight from the treetops across the dam. And I delighted as I realized a small stick figure was moving below them. What sounds that man must have heard, the flapping of great, black wings! What fear his heart must have felt, as the flock dipped and dived around him.
"Make time," sniffed the Saluki as it stopped to check out Finn.
And so, we lollygagged at the bridge, Finn and me, watching a sleepy bullfrog puncture the mossy surface.
"Make time," smiled the young family as--twice--we crossed each others' paths.
And I did, pulling to the side of the path, crouching to get a good look at a half dozen flowering plants--purple and blue and white--few of which I knew by name.
"Make time," said the waddling Mallard mom, stepping off her nest of eggs for a breather.
That's when Finn looked up at me, sharing some unspoken moment and letting me know how glad he was to be there, with me, breathing good air and smelling great smells, even as the low hum of distant traffic spoke of life in a faster lane.
"Make Time" . . . yes, it has a nice ring to it.
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