Dry Season
A calming walk along the river bank exposed after weeks of no rain, a long continuous row of willow trees lines the length of the park, roots seeking moisture from deep below. Scooters, bikes, walkers, old, young, families, all walk the inlaid stones and view the sluggish brown river below. The constant fisherman, some on flat rafts, others along the receding shore, it is the dry season now and they spend the day in futile design. Young couples hand in hand oblivious, men in tense groups thrust cards to a small table, two brown poodles play on the grass, an old man crippled and bent walks with his wife every night, small boys play with their bubble machines, they eagerly run past my bench and stare at my strange western face, soon distracted they run along the path. The evening cools, its been such a long hot day. The gardener brings out his record player, opera transcends the willows. The dancers will soon arrive.
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