I saw a long-stemmed yellow flower at the wrack line. I picked it up and kept walking south toward Saddle Mountain. I saw another, red, and picked it up. Then two others—purple and yellow—my collection grew—and I had no idea underlying the inspiration, although I did have a candidate for the bouquet, assuming she’d accept dead wrack flowers reeking of decomposition of the sea.
By the time I’d walked another hundred yards, I had gathered almost a dozen flowers. obviously from the same bunch. How in the world they arrived here on this morning in such pristine condition was unimaginable. I could only speculate that someone brought them for an intended proposal or an apology and that proposal or apology didn’t flower. But why abandon (trash) them so evenly? Why not dump the bouquet in a pile? Ahh, the vagaries of the human condition—they induce and compel me to write and harvest ditch dandelions to decorate peoples’ lives.
So there I was walking with a pretty bouquet of discarded flowers, wondering about their fate, when I looked up to the trail into the dunes and beheld a bald eagle perched on a sign. She was the nicked veteran I’ve seen here for years and our paths had crossed many times.
Why not? She was a friend, an intimate. I approached the bald eagle and offered the bouquet. She lifted off from the sign and flew away. In my mind, she accepted the gift and that augured something well, I’d like to believe. Or maybe it was just a gift to a regal bird who has given me such joy in recent years.
Consider this question: aren’t the best bouquets always found, stolen, picked (for free) or salvaged? Another question: are the best bouquets actually comprised of flowers?
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