When there's a gentle breeze

And the weather's not too hot, 

I go to a special place

I call my "thinkin" spot. 

It's a little cove

Between two towering trees

Whose branches have grown and curved just right

to hold and comfort me. 

Thoughts meander here and there

With no control of what I think, 

Interspersed with interruptions 

But through it all, there are no links. 

Once a cat climbed up a tree 

And quickly hopped back down, a squalling bird chasing after him

With hoarse and raucous sound. 

People out for an evening stroll

Ambled over just to talk

Nothing special, just chit-chat

Then continued on their walk. 

Someone driving down the street

Saw me and beeped their horn 

With a wave of a hand, as if to say

There couldn't be a better morn. 

After each incident, I return

To musings and reverie. 

How thankful I am for my "thinkin" spot

That's always there for me. 

Dorothy Boyland Stones,