Saturday, January 9, 2016

1.8.16 Cresting and falling

Until I discovered the volume of ticks, Fitzgerald Lake was a remarkable place to go. There I'd be , early mornings, to walk an aged dog, and a different pup, in those days.
I'd go by in the afternoon with my nephew, tearing the kid away from legions of video games and that unerring adolescent despair. 
I'd go when all the many kids were occupied or not too tired and I could slip away without dire events or an eclipsed, overwhelmed husband. 
I'd jog down the path, rounding the corners , taking in the fresh conifer-saturated air, and come upon the boardwalks , glistening in the rain or stark white ,with contracted frost in the long frozen winter.
It was there I'd sit and watch the wood ducks and loon and egret. Where I brought my daughter daily after some rough kid knocked her out during indoor soccer, and she had to rest her head injury for a month.
I might have gone there once with my husband , though I don't remember it ,and I pretty much doubt it, because always he's had his own interests and does not live for the outdoors- unless it's Italian .
I remember being pulled there on hot dark steamy summer nights , finding my way almost by touch, down to the stilled lake waters, and the smothering voracious mosquito.
The other-worldly call of the Owl so close, as I lay on the soft pine forest floor, feeling centuries of microbes and humans and creatures cresting ,and then falling with the tides.


 

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