We are the seekers.
The stone skippers looking for one more hop to shatter the lake’s glass. The hunters after increasingly elusive Petoskey stones. The pilgrims yearning for respite, refreshment.
We are a solitary lot under the ponderous clouds as we watch sea birds playing hide and seek in the fog. A handful of children scattered along the shore of the state park shiver in the still-chill Michigan lake, while their parents fumble to close the top buttons of their slickers. A barefoot pair in jeans and sweatshirts trail a seagull with an injured wing, looking like a Lewis Carroll version of a suburban couple out walking their dog.
I am a story seeker. Unbidden, words tumble into my mind, careening off each other. I clutch at them, stuffing them into my memory, a trove to sort later. But they are will-o-wisps. I form sentences, phrases, images. Searing them on my brain before they escape.
But like a summer’s tan, the words are fading. A few I’ve safely embedded behind the blinking curser of my screen. The precious ones are gone; only trinkets remain.
I must stuff my hands in my pocket, turn my face to the wind and seek to replenish my treasure.