We talk about the differences between
summer and winter, the coolness amid
the early heat of the day this mid-August
morning, a breeze rippling the water
of the pond, how the pond will freeze
in January, how as elders we are more
apt to feel the bite of the cold. Standing
on the bridge above the river, I point out
the water thrush moving about on
a mossy stone, the upturned green
umbrellas of lily pads gone to yellow
bobbing in the current. The waterthrush
flits rock to rock, as is its nature,
sometimes rock-hopping, other times
moving fluidly by flapping its wings,
stopping to dip its beak into the stream,
pecking at the water. This is one
of the only North American birds that
sings at night. What a delight it is to
just watch it find rocks submerged in
the water that we don’t even see from
the bridge above the river, that to observe
its casual grace is an eloquence beyond
what understanding words can offer,
that we need to bookmark the experience
of the morning, exercise our memory
in a way to be able to call it back,
to archive the day, the wind on our faces,
the benevolence of the sunlight slanting
down through the dappled lushness
of the August foliage above the waterthrush
moving stone to stone among the cool shadows.
