Wandering

It was fine to walk out the back door and wander. I remembered a physical therapist telling me, as she worked on my back, "You're a goal-directed person, aren't you?" as if that were not such a good thing. When I think of word "goal," I see a football fly between the posts or a ball hit the net. Without a goal, I went up to Hills Pond and let my eye latch on for a moment to whatever gave me pleasure, like these cattails, intricate, fading, lush.

The air was mellow with the smell of fallen leaves just beginning to rot. The smell of fall. The Japanese maples were winey red; a black dog strained on the leash, and though there's a leash law in this town, I wanted the owner to unhook the leash as I've unhooked mine.

Arlington Sublime

Hills Pond, July 24, 2009, 5:58 PM

At Hills Pond

If the wind and the light are right, even the rocks seem to float.

Hills Pond: Reflections

There was enough bright light for the pond to pick up reflections.  I thought of Saul Steinberg's charming book, "Reflections and Shadows."  He believed that a reflection is often more intense than the orignial.  I wouldn't say the reflection is more intense, but rather more mysterious. But maybe "intense" and "mysterious" are the same thing.

When Steinberg saw reflections in water, "for fun" he would "throw a stone into the upside-down landscape, and seeing that the lower part moves," he would "almost expect the upper part to move too."  

Above Hills Pond

This afternoon I climbed up to the granite-bottomed high ground above Hills Pond.  The rocky ledges dumped in the Ice Age are covered with a thick layer of pine needles; the trees drop their own protection.

The Jack-in the-pulpit flowers had passed but Solomon seal was up, and the plantain was thick and green; the Indians called it "white man's footprints," because it sprouted up wherever the English settlers walked. Apparently they brought it with them on the soles of their shoes.

Birds flittered among the branches, too quick for me to identify.  I passed a fallen tree, the stumpy end spurred with what was left of the roots.

As I reached the highest point a dog came running toward me, though the owner tried to direct it away from me.  It was honey colored, part Pekinese, I think, with that alert pointed face.  I put out my hand; the dog nosed me out.  There's been plenty of ill feeling in town about dogs off the leash. The owner was nervous, then relieved when I spoke affectionately to the dog, which was so clean despite the muddy woods and deep wet leaf mold--the trees were dripping, the rocks covered with slippery mist.  I was charmed to meet the smart, elegant, pretty dog.     

At the Pond

Anxious, after a difficult day, I went out before dinner last night and took the uphill walk to the pond, just a few blocks from my house.  The sky was overcast, the streets wet from rain, the air cool and damp.  Few people were on the street, and few cars.  Rush hour was over.

My heart beat fast as I climbed, slowed as I strolled.  When I got to the pond, I listened for the red wing blackbirds, which nest there, but they had settled in for the night.  

The pond picked up what light there was.