Wednesday, January 25, 2017
Temperature: 40 degrees
Skies overcast with some rain.
Today I'm feeling adventurous.
I break from routine to explore a new trail. One that winds around a man made lake, the effects of a river dammed years ago. Brady's Run Park keeps the lake stocked with trout and offers free fishing for all. If the weather was warmer and the day drier, the trail would be crowded with people. Fishing lines, glittering in the sunlight, would extend into the water, hoping for a bite. But today I'm cold and alone, my only company the red warning signs posted every one hundred feet that read Do Not Swim.
I feel a wet drop of rain rest on my nose. And another on my cheek. I look out at the surface of the lake. Its once smooth reflection bubbles like someone set the water to boil. I stand still, eyes fixed on the troubled water. Watch as the rain drips from the sky, ripples across the lake surface, and joins the larger body of water. The movement is mesmerizing. The pitter-patter of rain drops is calming.
A shudder shakes my shoulders. I imagine the dry, warmth of my car and wish to call it a day and head home. But I force myself to be still and quiet. To observe and listen.
Across the lake, pine trees mingle with their deciduous brothers. Their vibrant green is a sharp contrast to the otherwise stark background. A quiet "quack-quack" reaches my ears, and I spy two ducks sailing towards me. Undeterred by the weather, they swim smoothly through the water, their heads (one brown and one green) bend slightly forward. Beneath the water I imagine four orange, webbed feet paddling forward. I wonder if they're on their way home. Come spring will ducklings follow in their wake?
I smile. Childhood memories of feeding ducks returns to me. The feel of a smooth duckbill pecking at the bit of bread in my palm. The boisterous "quack-quack" as one happily gobbles up the snack. I pat my coat and pant pockets hoping for some food to share and find only a used tissue and my car keys. I shrug my shoulders. Enriched flour product probably isn't an ideal component of the average duck diet anyway.
The ducks reach the lake shore and waddle onto the path. I watch as they shake the water from their bodies, tail feathers swaying back and forth, back and forth. They preen, and primp, and set off towards a small grove of bushes. With a final "quack-quack" they disappear from my sight. I wave goodbye and continue on the trail.
I love the little by-lines you provide at the beginning of each of your pieces, Bethany. You do a great job of capturing little stories that reveal, bit by bit, a sense of place in your writing. It's important to capture these small quotidian moments, and I look forward to reading more.
ReplyDeleteThere's definitely a common thread this week where place yields childhood memory; several of you have written about observing something that brings back a memory from when you were kids. I appreciate getting some more concrete place details in this, ones that show you are looking closely.
ReplyDeleteI also feel like I can see your place getting fuller through bit-by-bit details and vignettes. I especially appreciated the description of the lake and ducks in this one. And there's something about your headings, with their weather reports and date stamps that remind me of the lake reports heading sections in Terry Tempest William's "Refuge." It's grounding and provides a point of reference from post to post.
ReplyDelete