looking at little things

I cancelled plans that would have me rushing between work and reconciliation service and went instead to the lakeshore seeking serenity and sight. I walked along the waters edge, little hills of washed up rocks shifting beneath my shoes. The rock piles roll into, are an extension of, the lake floor that, a few feet out, descends sharply and escapes my sight. Sea glass gives a green whistle calling attention to itself amidst the water slick browns and tans and sandy whites. The glass puts me in mind of Brother Josh's poem and my own old habits. I stoop to pick up every one I see, fingering the edges, tossing in those still bearing the sharp shine of their broken bottle past. They slip neatly into the wide water that somehow consistently creeps forward without ever submerging the shore.

I walked over the sand to the park that wraps the bare shoulders of the beach like a grassy green shawl. A big woman with bleached blond hair and a gray hoodie was shouting so loud her voice became a hoarse growl, a roar of profanities directed to a feather-light, steel-haired, woman who was walking her dogs and apparently failed to pick up their poop. Every unclean words for woman and excrement was hurled at the mute offender, interspersed with threats of violence. I looked and listened and walked closer incase the conflict escalated from verbal to physical. But violence was already occurring. I hovered in between, still at a distance from both, should I say something? Who do I move toward? I waited and when the lioness stalked away, still rumbling, prayed that the women's jagged, brittle edges would not be broken, but rubbed smooth.