A Wonder Wander
“All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.”
Indeed it was an eve, an eve of green, balmy air, slightly warmer than room temperature, with waves of cottonwood puffs floating southward, and northward, and any direction through the photons of sunset; and herds of gnats, and marches of wandering pilgrims, all with phones glommed to their heads like barnacles.
There were aeronauts on paragliders soaring down to the park, wrestling their craft into backpacks, and hiking back up the hill again.
This was the Foothills South Trail, 3-ish miles down around the lake and back. Not much elevation. A scenic and casual stroll.
Only one eye-roll this evening: a woman and her phone walking a pair of pugs, whose leashes stretched left and right across the trail, blocking everyone. She was oblivious. A pair of cyclists said something to her, the pugs glared grumpily, the cyclists moved on, the pugs resumed their leash-stretching. We can’t really begrudge her staring at the phone, I suppose: it might have been bad news, after all. And anyway the pugs were small, and not too difficult to avoid, and the evening was pleasant, both despite and because of them.
All the while the cottonwoods puffed their seeds across the air, the cormorants drifted across the lake, and the gliders sailed across the sky.
Questions of the Night
What are these swarms of bugs?
If only the hour hand of a clock is broken, how often is the clock correct?
Wonderland Lake