It was the end of the day, almost late enough to need my flashlight.
The four of us (me, two teens and Beverly) walked down our street and around the corner to where the small lake flows out into a small stream.
I had printed off a short service that I found on-line, placed up by one the Beth El Synagogues in the US. And trust me, we had more than enough bread crusts for crumbs. No guitar nor real desire for song.
For a short time the rain held off; we quietly recited the prayers and cast the crumbs into the rapidly flowing water.
At the conclusion, the Mole scrambled back up the bank from where he had been overlooking the stream. Heading quickly back down the road, I am afraid that thoughts were more on the upcoming meal rather than reflection.
