No Small Gift

Up to our knees in patches of tiger lilies. “Red is your color.” A babbling brook in Woodstock we cross in bikini tops and flip-flops— jeans rolled up— to soak in the last of the sun from atop a mossy boulder. Currents. Crashing. Sliding. Thrashing. Slipping away. Gravity pulls my foot-house towards the mouth. Panic. Laughter. Potential outcomes various— paralyzing. My sure-footed friend stumbles after it with no luck. An idea! “I saw stuck on a rock on our way a miracle!” Mad dash in the dusky onset of dark. “I pray it’s your left!” It is. We climb the footpath back to the gravel road and pass little girls riding bicycles— tiger lilies in their hair. Giggles as we dart past them-- I donning one wet black flip and one wet red flop.