Where’s Waldo

Herons are big birds. Their silhouette is somehow gawky and graceful at the same time. They  are usually so easy to spot, poised in place like lawn ornaments gone rouge. But sometimes they are completely missing in action. Camouflage holds sway. Is that a graceful neck bending or a dead tree limb? Legs or reeds? Finding a heron can be like a game of Where’s Waldo. 

Room to breathe

I turned into a parking spot as close to the entry as possible.  Hooray! Let joy be undiminished! Fling wide the door! We are at the pool. 

And that’s when we noticed the very long school bus swing up as close to the entry as possible and fling wide IT’S door. Children poured out in an unending stream. It made me think of those old skits where people are climbing into a car on one side and clambering out the other or like a magician pulling an endless scarf from his sleeve. 

As we entered the pool, so likewise did an astonishing throng.  Extra lifeguards were on duty. They even brought in trainees!

The deep end was elbow to elbow.  The shallow zone, a giant splash and shriek zone. 

Optimistically , three lanes down the center were preserved until like soldiers breaching the castle wall, children gained a lane and another until a lone lane remained. But what a lovely lane it was. One long stretch of empty beckoning water. Chaos to the right and chaos to the left but before and behind was room to glide and turn and float and breathe. 

Slumber

Sometimes my slumbering self is jolted awake.  Not that strange, slow awakening where the cobwebs of sleep loosen and drift off but a door in my mind flung wide. 

“Whaaaa?!”

A distant siren wails.

Dogs howl, coyotes yip and gibber. 

There is a shriek of laughter. 

It seems to be just outside my window. 

Farewells are called.

A distant voice answers. 

A door slams.  

A car starts.

I turn my pillow over.

The coolness comforts. 

And down the slope of sleep I slide. 

Delicate as breath

“Why do you think butterflies fly like that?” I ask my granddaughter as a white butterfly zigzags overhead.  “I don’t know,” she says, pondering.  “It makes them more noticeable.” It does! And I love that about butterflies. They ride the breeze, delicate as breath, strong as a heartbeat, silent as light. 

They may be silent but they say quite clearly, “ I’m here! No, here! Hey! Up here! Good-bye!”

Celebration

We noticed the first photographer because his car, emblazoned with his photography business name was an amazing metallic rose. A second photographer was parked nearby.  They were clearly waiting.  A wedding we figured.  It can be hard to pin down exact times where groups of people are involved. In time, two more photographers arrived. Gadzooks! How big would a wedding be to need four photographers?

On cue, two large busses wheeled into the parking lot and an amazing flood of fabulously dressed party goers poured out.  

The women were so wondrously dressed we weren’t sure we would spot the bride but there she was all gold and glitter and grace. 

Family members grouped for pictures and regrouped, their joking and laughter a celebration in itself. 

We stood

As we stood at the pond’s edge, bird song swirled in and out of focus. Was that a Cedar Waxwing? My husband’s phone knew. He has the Merlin app and a roll call began to blink on and off.  Chickadee, Robin, Redwinged Blackbird, Cedar Waxwing, Swainson’s Thrush. It was like an orchestra warming up. 

A Mallard mother skimmed along the surface of the pond as though pulled by a string. She looked straight ahead. Nary a feather ruffled.   She was followed by nine little ducklings. They swam in every direction at once and yet somehow ended up at the same destination as their mother. She seemed to do a head count before leading them into a narrow channel and out of sight. 

We followed a swallowtail back to the parking lot.