She wanted to go to Aldergrove Lake Park.
She wanted to go there BEFORE she went home.
Even if no one else except her wanted to go.
She asked so earnestly.
She even said please.
Grandmothers love to say yes.
While the others hastened home, we buckled in and headed south.
South, past rows of houses all alike.
And flocks of cars heading east.
Past trucks grumbling and clearing their throats.
And cedar, fir and alder thickly green.
We were on the lookout for Living Creatures.
I told her about the coyote and the mouse.
About the owl and rabbit.
I reminded her of the time I'd seen a turtle laying eggs and the three giant frogs.
Of the snake and the fish with bulging eyes.
The ducks.
And squirrels.
She clutched my phone.
She was ready to film.
The pond was as flat as glass.
Not a duck in sight.
It wasn't an amphibian day.
Or a reptile one.
Nothing furry dashed by.
Birds sang in shadowed invisibility.
She seemed a bit disgusted.
"Look," I cried. "A honey-bee!"
Carefully she filmed, standing wisely at a distance.
"Blue dragonflies! See, one just landed on my arm."
A beetle waddled obligingly by.
Slender silver damselflies twirled.
So many Living Creatures.
She filmed and filmed and filmed.
