BETWEEN WATER AND SKY

Late in the day, when the westering sun is just starting to angle down through river's overhanging tangle of sycamores, while the evening light is still strong and warm, the resident pair of Canada geese who usually call the downstream section below the Cottage Pool home, often decided they'll head somewhere upstream before nightfall. 

As usual, the male leads the way. But before taking wing for their journey, they pause at the bottom edge of the big riffle. While the female paddles in tight circles about the upper end of the pool, the gander lodges himself smack at the edge of the riffle's rocks where the fast, tumbling current merges with the pool's quiet surface. Sometimes he can't hold himself against the flow and has to readjust his position, jamming his breast in one churning pocket between the rocks after another, until he finds that perfect place to wedge himself against the turbulence.

At this point, grounded as best he can manage, his raises his body, extends his long neck, and peers upstream—head turning this way and that like a periscope on a submarine, sharp eyes scrutinizing every inch of water, rocks, bushes, trees, and sky ahead, looking for the lest hint of danger in their quarter-mile flight path from the here to the bend. This intense and careful reconnoitering takes several long minutes, but he never rushes.

Finally, satisfied that he and missus will be safe, he honks his intentions, says "Follow me!" and lifts off…a huge, lovely, powerful bird, caught between water and sky, back feathers turned golden by the waning sun. And after only the briefest hesitation, his mate follows.        

MIDNIGHT…

Midnight, or nearly so. I’ve been dozing in front of the TV for the last half hour. Must have been the full day of yard work on my winter-softened body. Every muscle aches; my joints feel rusted and inoperable, stiff, swollen. Who would have thought shoveling, hauling, and spreading a dozen wheelbarrow loads of topsoil and perhaps twice that many of mulch would have wrecked me to such an extent? Not only am I no longer the man I used to be…I’m beginning to doubt I ever was. In less than a week I’ll have another birthday. Tonight, I feel about a decade older already. I obviously need to go to bed, which presents the problem of standing up. Two attempts and a couple of pitiful groans later, I’m vertical…more or less. I switch off the television. Just pushing the remote button hurts. As the room is suddenly plunged into darkness, I hear Moon the dog hop off her snoozing spot on the end of the other couch facing the fireplace. Time to take her out for her final constitutional—providing I can shuffle to the door. The dog and I step outside, onto the side deck. Moon makes a quick snuffle-check under the end of the deck for any errant raccoon or possum that might be hiding there, then trots off into the darkness to complete her doggy rounds. The air temperature can’t be more than a degree or two above fifty—if that; I’m wearing shorts and a tee shirt, so I quickly come fully awake. There’s a cloistered feel to the night, due in part to the light cloud cover which has blotted out all stars and dimmed the nearly full moon to less than half power—its wane light smeared and strangely colored as it slips through the topmost branches of the greening sycamores. Sound fills the darkness…the reemerged voice of the river, missing these last few days because of the high water. In the scant light I can just make out the whiteness of broken water above the riffle. The actual riffle is still a foot or two underwater—but the new hydraulics of water hitting stone is pushing waves to the surface. It is these waves, playing out upon the current, that fill the night with their muted roar. A friendly sound to a riverman…the sound that says my stream is returning to normal. I step off the deck and walk across the yard, trying to remember where I dug those new planting beds so’s I don’t fall into one like a stumbling drunk. The clouds have now completely obscured the moon. There’s a bench on top of the little hillock at the edge of the property, and for just a minute I take a seat—enjoying the cool solitude, the sound of the river, and the feeling I get just looking at the shadowy bulk of the cottage. Somewhere not too far upstream a great horned owl hoots, which sends an involuntary shiver down my spine…though maybe it is just the cold air on my underclad body. Moon the dog comes snuffling over, possibly wondering what I’m doing sitting up here in the May darkness. I pat her head. In dog years she’s about the age I feel. Okay, enough of these self-pitying, maudlin thoughts. I hoist myself up, stifling the urge to groan, and head back to the cottage. I think we’ll both feel better after a good night’s rest.