We’re on our boat and it’s Labor Day. No one’s out because it’s stormy, and we like it this way. The lake is ours.
With the wind in my face, and the rain to my back, I pretend I’m alone. I am alone. My thoughts fly with the wind rushing past me — over mountains, hills, and plains; forward, backward, now. And I realize:
I am not alone. Earth is ours.
“Why the Egyptian, Arabic, Abyssinian, Choctaw?
Well, what tongue does the wind talk? What nationality is a storm? What country do rains come from? What color is lightning? Where does thunder go when it dies?”
― Ray Bradbury
Image: Folsom Lake, California (by me)