Fallen Timber

This creek ripples over rounded rock
Slips softly through reflections
Of tall spruce
Spilling green into
The disappearing days of autumn

 

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Just Add Water

Earth-soaking rains

Transform parched soil.

Now in damp stillness

Caps and stems

Emerge

erupt

pop up

Dot the forest duff

Like tiny lights or parasols or stools for tired toads.

Mushroom mania.

Off Kilter

The fence line that crosses the creek is tired. It leans off kilter, like me some days.

Only barbwire keeps the weather-worn post from joining its reflection with a splash. Or perhaps it will be a slower end, a silent slipping-below-the-waves demise.

But for now it is still there. Still doing its job.

That’s all we can ask of anyone.

 

 

Water Tresses

The neighbour’s creek runs through a culvert under the road and trickles into a shallow pool. Early one morning I sit down on the dew-damp earth. Pull out my camera. And wait.

The sun stretches higher.

Shoreline grasses are mirror-perfect on the water’s surface.

Water striders begin to emerge. Tentative, at first. Then bolder. Now, moving like tiny bumper cars. Their ripples run amok, scattering the reflections.

Strands of mermaid hair.

 

Jesus Bugs

Water striders. Pond skaters. Water skippers.

Their names suggest what they can, in fact, do:  walk on water.

Spindly, outstretched legs spread the weight, each foot forming a dimple in the liquid skin.

Surface tension in action.

It’s why feathers float.

And rocks don’t.