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August 29, 2016
Yesterday’s Morning Walk was a small, satisfying treat. Many people leaving Show Low Lake after unsuccessful attempts at catching fish. A few arriving with dreams of success.
Ospreys hung air overhead, one had a prized fish in its talons. If any anglers saw this, envy smirked their faces. Remember one thing, the ospreys have evolved with certain skills no human has. Be glad of an opportunity of being here.
Brownie sniffed every scent wafting into the range of her sharp and articulating nose. Lucky dog. Her life is always in the present tense.
Humans should be so lucky as to maintain such presence. We attempt this whenever we can. The human mind however, has issues most creatures do not.
First image of the morning is a Great Blue Heron gulping a black fish of some kind at Show Low Creek. Three attempts and it is down the throat and gone. Sudden movement behind it prompts a quick flight away from noisy humans descending a trail near this majestic bird. Two acceptable images emerge.
Where you at Bradbury? Your wisdom is acute, on target, and usually fit to most occasions. A writer’s plague is lack of concise and relevant information shared with others. Hence, a sometimes need to invoke giants of literature such as yourself. But then, we are at the lake, and observing
Two anglers occupy the end of the dock in what appears as meditative positions proffered as prayers to the god of fishing. May fortune smile on them. Serious anglers, it seems, are the most optimistic sportsmen on the planet. Perhaps because they realize; if not today, tomorrow.
Into the woods surrounding the lake to a favored spot, to sit, watch, absorb, relax, and release time to the wind. A shadow dancing on the wind is a chance recording. An old, abandoned sock of some kind peeks from behind a rock, a styrofoam cup another sample, along with waves, and a butterfly.
Such is yesterday morning. Several people stop, ask if they may pet Brownie. Of course, she is harmless and welcomes new scents. A husband is admonished by his wife to catch up with her, as their children are waiting. I offer; “I’ll be here next weekend.” He laughs, shuts a car door and moves on.
Check the creek for birds of prey. Empty. Osprey again circles overhead, only one decent shot. Even that is marginal.
By now the eggs on the counter at our cottage are room temperature. Soon an omelette will grace a breakfast table with toast and espresso. Background music of Bonnie Raitt and Carole King will alternate, and echo our cottage with music from their hearts to this one.
Brownie trots with purpose, occasionally jerking the leash. She knows food and water are waiting on the porch. This shooter’s gait does not change. “We will get there, dog. Lighten up.”
One does examine these excursions into the world. Some unravel into chagrin, others are celebrated as gifts, though they all are gifts; others reveal their meaning at a later time. Many are totally forgettable and dissipate like dry, Arizona clouds void of moisture.
And that is okay. The opportunity to find a satisfying image, or a revealed thought hidden in the mind, or just being content with the quiet life, is enough. One does not make demands on these outings.
They are all treats, or gifts, or events for the mind and spirit. One returns to our cottage with peace and a quiet stillness. Amen.
I am grateful for your visit. Thank you.