Across the street from the clinic where I work, everyday, there's a group of old guys sitting in folding chairs underneath the shade of a large oak tree. I see them in the morning when I pull in to the parking lot and they're there when I leave in the evening. Granted, I don't know if these are the same men, or if a shift change occurs in the middle day.
Some days I envy them. Especially on a sunny, breezy day like today, when for once the Alabama heat is timid and not scorching.
Some days I feel bad for them. They must be unemployed I suspect. In this economy I know it can be difficult to find a job.
Some days I envision that they are in fact a super secret council that meets in the open, hence no one suspects that they are super secret.
Some days I'm happy for them because they're a bunch of retired men planning their bucket list.
Some days I think their gathering is an informal daily poker tournament. Bring your lawn chair and chips. BYOLC&C?
Somehow this post is pertinent to writing. Seeing these men day in and out sparks a bit of my imagination, and isn't imagination one of the key ingredients for creative writing?