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,