In the park on the terrace,

at the southern border of the city,

there’s a stream

and a footbridge

and a mother duck

with her seven, eight, no nine

little ducklings,

brown and fuzzy,

nascent and cranky

old men in new waddling feet.

It’s so sunny and

so peaceful.

I am so relaxed.

“I am on holidays!”

in a new and gentle city and I’m

far away from home and very happy.

I get up from taking my pictures on the grass

and walk along the stream through the park.

There are a group of Aboriginal men enjoying a liquid picnic.

The sun is on my hair and on my back,

warming the jeans in front of my thighs

from the dampness of the earth.

I beam a smile and a grey-haired, yellow shirted

member of the drink picnic smiles at me back.

I raise an open hand, a motionless wave,

and he walks over.

“You are so beautiful,” he says.

“and God bless you.

You have a beautiful personality.

Thank you for being you.”

I thank him too.

I thank him for thanking me

and for being so kind.

It is all invisible matter

but not to him.

He sees it.

I feel it.

It’s real.

I am radiating.

I have so much love to give today.