One Afternoon Around Lake Wascana

I'm on the trail (one of them) of Don Quixote, for whom every skew of reality comes through language. Coded language hundreds of years old. 

I name my bike, my bag and gear. I select my own names from whatever the breeze provides. This would be no ordinary bench,

no obvious view.

Here flowers abound.

Like the Don, I speak as if authored in some story.









Like him, I take enchantment from distant isle.

 Of course the path narrows . . .

a warning.

When I spot the white stallions emerging from the sea, I take off.