I didn’t seek magic early this morning. The fog caught me.
I walked in the fog a bit, toward the sound of a lone trumpet. A man sat on a pink crate with a sheaf of papers and a tarnished horn. His sound echoed over the bayou. I said Good Morning but didn’t take a picture of him. I got a picture of the bayou instead.
As the music faded behind me, I thought about beginnings and endings. I just finished a draft of my novel–one I’ve been working on for two years now–but am not yet ready to dive into a new project. Not sure what I’ll do in the meantime. Walk, I guess.
When I reached a bridge, I decided to cross. Back to my car, back to civilization. But I held on to the magic.