 |
| Bird on a canoe. |
Something bumps against the bottom of the canoe.
The world has some magic places – Lambton County’s Bear Creek in spring;
meadows ablaze with dandelions.
A snapping turtle surfaces, so close I could pet him. He regards me unblinkingly, out of one beady little eye. The boat eases forward, dead quiet, except a few drops, falling from the blade…
Shadowy recesses. Under clumps of young oaks, the earth lies carpeted with myriads of tiny white, purple and pink flowers. Trilliums abound in patches. Distinctive foliage marks the extent of their territory.
I can smell the soil and it is good.
“Where’s that darned trail, again?”
Only a short time ago, it was winter.
There is magic to be found on a winter’s morn. Drop of water flashes, falls from the tip of an icicle. Sun rays, ardently probing, urgent in the short and precious day.
A place where in summer, nothing ever seems to happen, yet now, the pale parchment that is the ground holds a record of many transactions.
The trails go in all directions. Night or day, it doesn’t matter. Time lasts forever.
Weather means nothing.
Unleash the soul. Let it dance with the breezes.
And now, when night comes, a low orange moon perches among the branches of a big old jack pine. The wind keeps trying to tell me something.
Moist and warm, a spring evening’s twilight.
Pixie glimmer of green, flitters along the half a moment. Cricket noises all around…there goes the green light again. Grass at the base of yonder fence post rustles with some shy newcomer. An owl hoots, far, far away.
Water flows, intent on getting someplace, somehow, some time.
Water talks to herself. She has but one thing on her mind…”Downhill, downhill, downhill…”
Stars watch over me. I watch the trees; which are alive now that they think no one is looking. I stub my big toe on a boulder whom I should have seen.
“Sorry, buddy,” I murmur. Like a golfer I replace the divot, rearrange the moss.
Like a child in a nursery, I play. Life is a game. There are no rules.