Poetry Man

I was bent over a bench shooting lichen when I heard a harmonica. Not a bluesy-get-down-and-dirty blow, but a happy rolicking set of runs.

I couldn't resist. I moved further down the path toward the music, which had morphed into whistling. By the time I reached the fish pond (which had angered me earlier because of the rocks and beer cans stranded on the ice), a strumming banjo accompanied the whistling. 

I imagined whom I might see, and I wasn't disappointed. "Hi!" 

"Hello, ma'am. Beautiful afternoon, isn't it?"

I agreed. "Your dog is so focused. Perfectly calm and obedient."

"He's a good dog," the young man answered. He nodded toward the good dog, and the little pom-poms on his knitted cap bobbed.

"You've sure found the perfect spot," I said and snapped his picture.

"Oh yes, ma'am. You have a great weekend!" 

"I shall," I said, and wandered on, nodding to the whistling and strumming in the background.

It has already started with a bit of Sewanee magic, I thought.