The Park Where I Go

The park where I go is not far from home,

It has miles of beach for my dog to roam.

Today as I walked along my way,

I felt grateful for the bright fall display

in the reflection of the river.

As I dug my feet in the rocky sand,

it looked painted by an artist's hand.

The browns and gold of the rolling hills

were mirrored in nature's looking glass,

basking in the evening sun,

now fading into hues of blue where the river and sky joined as one.

I saw a slippery elm felled cross the forest path today,

A beaver must have thought it was in his way.

As I walked around and along the beach,

I selected some driftwood within my reach,

and threw it high out over the lazy, golden water

for Jax to retrieve,

dropped panting and wet

with an eyeful of pride at my sneakered feet.

Soon we came to the forest path,

A cool, shady breeze was a welcome reprieve

as the tall, glinting gold of the elms' leaves

fluttered in the last light of day.

Cooler here, the path opened wide,

to miles of white sand at the river's side.

I danced alone there,

and wondered, did anyone see?

But there was only the river, the beach, my dog and me.