Sunday, August 16, 2015

hitting a rock bar, letting summer and the insects sing

Just beyond the bend in the river there is a rock bar covered by an inch or two of water.

Rock bar.

I am on my hands and knees looking at stones. Josie cannot cross the deeper water that surrounds the bar, so he is on or near the shore, running to and fro, running all over, always running. He runs into the woods. I call him, and he comes running back. I carry him to the rock bar, put him down. The next time I look up, I see he is being carried away by the current. I follow, get to him just as he is bobbing up against a log, pluck him from the water, carry him to shore, put him down.


The next day, I want to explore the rock bar again.

Josie gets to the bend in the river first.

I haul Josie over to it, set him down, discover if I just sit on my butt it’s pretty nice, and Josie sits on my lap. I pick at stones. I look at my hand there in the cool, clear water, the water that is moseying on by, and what happens is one perfect moment of detachment and connection. Then I notice my butt is sinking in the rocks and sand so I move. Josie roams the rock bar. I walk about a bit, stop to pick up a stone or two, I pick up Josie, we return to shore.

Rock bar again.

On the porch in the evenings we listen to a medley of voices that weave in and out,
that rise and fall,
that are as constant as the movement of the flies and bees and wasps
and those big black things like ants with wings
and crickets and grasshoppers and beetles and maybe, just maybe, a few mosquitoes;
it is an overture of insects with the added whiz and whir
of hummingbirds that zip in from the treetops in the yard,
two or three meeting up by the feeder,
pulling up short,
doing a mid-air dance,
a mid-air joust,
so much to say, so much to express, but then no one eats and
they all just zip out and away
to the treetops in the meadow, or perhaps make an arc around the corner of the house,
zip-zip away,
zip-zip, zippity-zip.
One more time.
Do it again.
We might as well be at the circus, Josie and Elliott and I, in front row seats, heralding the exit of summer, this blast of heat and glory before
school bells ring
and orange lumpety-headed jack-o’-lanterns
get lit up
with big old jaggedy-toothed grins.
Or maybe not the circus but the symphony, a new age experimental symphony with multi-layered tones
and vibrations
crossing and criss-crossing
and jousting
with just a hint of herbal tea—jasmine, I think—wafting through
for good measure.

Back in the river, dragonflies and waterbugs.

We like waterbugs.

Logs to walk.

One day, we will look back on this and laugh.

Treasure to haul.

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