Orange is the new ocean. At my Minnesota cabin in autumn, anyway. Wind swirls ripple and cause swishes in its sea. Nature splashes it spray before it rests in white.
Sanskrit’s naranga: “orange tree.” I am awash in its fruitiness.
Its scent, aged in musky sweetness, allures even the staunchest summer hold-outs and those reluctant to sea change. I admit I am one, as is Mickey, my golden retriever, who loves to fish. I’ll not be the one to tell him the docks will come out next week.
I, for today, at least, while nature says I still can, am choosing to moor in my Orange Ocean.
“Come,” it calls, “sit for awhile, listen to the waves, the whisperings, as we head from harbor for what lies beyond the horizon.”