Not Quite Right

Old Viking Looking Back

The white windsock hung in the bare branches of an oak tree beside our picnic table, its green and orange tentacles suspended by thin branchlets that formed a trapping web; the last fading remnants of a bygone time, crepe arms spread at unnatural, grotesque angles. Upon first glance, with only a bit of reflection, I imagined an octopus grabbing onto narrow wisps of coral, stubbornly defying the current and all nature’s relentless attempts to pull it into deeper waters. Perhaps that octopus/windsock and I are brothers, each seeking refuge from the current—or maybe we are merely passing in a previously charted course of neither design nor consequence.

These days, it is difficult to discern.