The Stone Footpath

It is Sunday at the pond after a long day at work. I stood at the bar all day without customers, until the least convenient moment, which was during the Germany v. Austrailia World Cup game. I missed every pivotal moment, the four goals scored by Germany for their win. Now that my legs are settled in the grass, I can punish thoughts of work to the back of my mind. Pete is not alone after all! There are two female mallards here today. If you look closely, the male and female duck have a singular feather in common. It is a deep purple sandwiched by bold white lines. As I take pictures of them, they simultaneously nuzzle their beaks into their rumps. An itch perhaps? Their necks are bendable like rubber toys; they rotate like globes of spinning continents. The water sounds like an African drum today, beating on hollow leather. Moss grows on the moist metal fountain, making it more beautiful than its altered metal, man-made face. It's funny how the footpath of square stones leads nowhere. It wraps around the pond and simply stops. At the other end, it leads to the walkway at Mellon Board Room. Stone leading to its other half: cement. I notice this because sometimes I have the same feeling. Where is my life leading? Where will I go next? When will I arrive? Who will walk across my hard surface and who will see underneath? There's something about stone that brings a building closer to nature. It is made of wood, of trees, but it is the stone that forces me to remember that it was once individual pieces buried in the ground, and now it stands upright, sternly staring at me with slate gray emotions. My mind wanders back to my to-do-list and I have to hop in my blue-green jetta, the color of Pete's oval head, and drive into the darkening air.