Walking the senses

Sunday was the first day of summer vacation for the choir.

So instead of driving to my usual parish in another town,
I attended church locally.
A 25-minute walk

(and I need 25-minute walks).

On the way home,
when I could pay attention
to something besides the voice in my head saying
"Walk faster! You're going to be late for church!"
I noticed how much I was enjoying
the sights, sounds, and smells of the journey.


It had just started to rain as I left church.
9:00 a.m. on a Sunday makes for a quiet downtown.


Freshly brewed coffee, and the sweet fragrance of a tree in bloom.

The acrid smell of creosote from the railroad ties,
and the gentle rumble of a car crossing the tracks.

Ah, the book shop!
I heard the author of Coop on the radio a few weeks ago.
And a new Michael Connelly book?
Note to self: reserve books from library.


Love these colors - especially on such a gray day.

Even the bakery looked fashionable.
No enticing smells, though. Closed on Sundays.

The bead shop.
If you have trouble making decisions,
this is not the place for you.

There are hundreds of little dishes with delectable beads.


The yarn shop always has clever displays.


And hanks of yarn in gorgeous colors and textures,
waiting for someone with nimble fingers
to turn them into something special.

Approaching the Main Street cemetery
(yes, in the middle of the village shopping district).
By now it had been raining long enough
to release the smell of wet sidewalks
and a whiff of worms and earth.
The brilliant blue-purple nepata had a sweet and spicy perfume.

Monuments of some early residents
date back to about 1850.

The building reflected in the wet pavement.
The owner used reclaimed materials
from buildings that were being torn down
to furnish the restaurant.

The fermenter in the micro brewery.
Like the reflections in the window?

Vintage chairs for those who await the opening of the salon.

The village center was left behind
for the tree-lined streets of a neighborhood.
As I walked, first under a tree and then in the open,
the sound alternated between
the soft patter of rain on the leaves
and then the light staccato of the rain
as it hit my umbrella.

Finally home, and a corner of the patio,
where the peonies bowed their heads
under the soft drenching rain.

Dianthus, but which ones exactly, I don't know.
Which doesn't dilute my pleasure in the least.