We parked in the lot near the immense black walnut tree. Its shade is dense this time of year, the moss on its massive trunk and lower branches still green. We’ve seen it in all seasons. We’ve seen it bare in winter, and in its golden profundity in fall. And it’s clear in its presence that wisdom isn’t something one seeks, because it is here.
And only the mind is a lens wide enough. The mind, and every fiber.
On the path to Goose Lake through the tall grass and brambles, the voices of our grandsons, who were chattering upon our arrival, were instinctively hushed. In a symphony, one misplaced note ruins for a time what follows. But out here, error is impossible. All is in harmony. It extends to one’s thoughts. And then there are no thoughts.
The lake in June is choked with bright reflective lilies. We heard a bullfrog. There is no shore, just a few awkward places to stand near the aromatic muck. A step too far and . . . but even the boys know better.
And then, home for lunch. Fresh local berries. The first garden cucumber. And the river is here.
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