buoyancy

Nothing better to do, floppy lake hat in the up position, she drifted out on the calm water in an open canoe the color of coffee, christened The Sitting Duck, for she only wants her life to drift, leg flopped over the port side, big toe breaking the calm coldness. And she is calm, not letting the blues seep into her boat. Quiet is broken from on shore, the echoing sound of a little girl screaming, tormented by a confused black magpie trying to steal peanuts from her little grubby fist.

A ‘V’ of barking impatient geese circle above as though waiting for permission to land from the control tower. She traces a traveling vagabond cloud above with pointed finger, a shape similar to Marilyn’s infamous fluttering skirt from that delicious subway breeze. And then another cloud enters stage left, one that must be a bridge, she says, perhaps the bridge across leading to where angels dwell as Van Morrison sings about.

Now, a bit sad, floppy hat in the down position, could it be the pull of the Moon, or the fact that she hasn’t had a First Kiss since way back when? A complete waste of time, she says. An ancient saying comes to mind - men make watches, God makes time. Just as that overwhelming loneliness hits her again a wayward goose suffering from vertigo wearing goggles with a malfunctioning parachute splashes nearby. She swears like a sailor.