our rock

When I was a kid, we had some good conversations out on the big rock. From there we had a view of the pond, part of the house when the leaves were down, and the tops of the woodpiles. The horse and the goats would have been nosing around somewhere on the hill. My mother took this picture from the yard one afternoon, unbeknownst to us, focusing her camera between the trees past my swing set. The bleached-out color of the grass and the leaves on the ground past the stone wall make me think that it is late fall. I am wearing my red raincoat, magenta pants and green boots, a bright spot of color on the rock with my father, and we are talking about something, or nothing, or everything.