It has been raining for days. The air is saturated with mist, the grass is spongy. Earthworms crowd to the spiky surface, snails head out across sidewalks to explore the mysteries of far away.
The man is already there when I arrive. He does nothing to show he notices me. I think he wore a cap, but I do not remember this clearly.
There is a square picnic table, a bench on each side, all bolted to the cement underneath. The man is kneeling in what I believe is a prayer posture, forehead resting on a beautifully woven piece of carpet – reds and golds, just the right size to drape over the picnic bench.
As he sits back to his knees again, he faces north. I do not know if this matters. It is as if I am not there – his concentration is complete.
It is a beautiful moment, a reverent moment. I have my cell phone with me: I could snap a photo.
But how do you capture reverence? Is it even appropriate to do so? I do not know.
So I stay on the side of respectful witnessing and continue my walk to the lake. I lean against the rail, where I listen to the quiet.
The man is gone when I retrace my steps. The moment stays with me.
I did something like this before.