Take a walk with me on this summer morning.
It's quiet now. The regulars haven't arrived yet, neither two legged nor four.
I already hear the bullfrogs as I round the first bend, and up ahead I
see lots of turtle heads looking for the little girl and her
grandmother. They know she'll have a bag of food to share.
The cattails are in peak form now, looking like fuzzy chocolate popsicles,
and the Sweet Bay bushes are thriving on the shady side of the pond.
The pond calls to me, or rather trills with birdsong, buzzing,
water slapping and ker-plunking;
a cacophony of sound that reaches from one edge to the opposite side.
I try to capture in my mind what I experience each morning when I take my walk,
on each lap spotting something I had missed previously like the
mole cricket or the otter at the edge of the water.
Green herons, dragonflies, turtles, egrets, songbirds, fish; all contributing
to a lush experience. Later, when I get to sketch, I'll try to capture those sounds
or the flight pattern of the dragonflies.
Glints of silver shine from Bluet and Skimmer trails as they flit around a small spit
of land where all the baby turtles congregate.
This grassy jut is only walkable if it hasn't rained
heavily, otherwise it's a mini Atlantis populated by amphibians and fish.
Even on the driest of days, it's spongy and springy.
Some days a cool wind rushes over the pond's surface forming ripples that twinkle
with the sky's reflection or the cloudy dome above. I try to interpret that too.
I finish my walk so I head to the car to grab my sketchbook , hoping to freeze
a few moments of the pond's day in my book.
All too soon I must head home, to the stuffy studio where my impressions
will reside between sketchbook pages until I can release them with
watercolor and pencils. But before I leave, I do a rubbing of the Sweet Bay leaves.
Tomorrow I'll come back to the pond to see what changes have
occurred in the past 24 hours.
Come walk with me.