Down by the river, there
was mist rising from the warm water meeting up with the vestiges of cool night
air. There was an almost cloudless sky, the undergrowth shoulder high. The
tansy are blossoming now, in their colonies, the yellow buds like so many small
suns, stretching toward light.
As all around us, the farmers, up before dawn,
harvest their corn, till, and reseed, hoping for rain.
The crew boats are resting here, out upon the
smooth river waters, at their turning point . All the women sitting in silence,
the person with the megaphone quieted. Their long boats slowly drifting
downstream.
A woman and man, new devotees , come round this way each morning, on new bikes
, with new gloves and bike clothes and helmets , smiling their way down the
path.
As Dante races about, like a happy little kid, growing braver each day, leaping
into the unknown terrain of tall grasses, unpredictable land, and the
delectable rustlings beneath .
Each day my self does what we do with experience, with repetition.
I notice the
small shifts, the incremental changes.
Of light, of each small seasonal shift. Of the growth cycles of plants and
trees, intermingled with the impact of climate.
As we meet one day after another, the slow-dance of our days.
