canoe glides softly

canoe glides softly,

rippling the mare's tails reflected

in the placid lake

Good thing we took the canoe to our local lake instead of driving 4 hours to the Upper Iowa River or even 15 minutes to Cedar Creek. As soon as we stepped into the canoe, the long patch on the side started spurting water. The only way to get in some paddling was to take turns soloing, leaning to the left to keep the gray gorilla tape above water. John looks like he's paddling through mare's tails reflected in the water. Kevlar canoe needs some serious fiberglass repair!

The little gazebo by the lake sits amid a patch of buffalo grass turned orange in autumn.

Above, cirrus clouds morph into fantastic shapes -- fans, feathers, mare's tails. I love these clouds.

curving back in bursts

curving back in bursts

of blue red white supernovas

this calm summer night

We arrive on the northwest side of Pleasant Lake for the July 4th celebration in the late evening. Good thing we came while it is still light because we have to wade through boot-sucking mud. Most folks are sitting on blankets or camp chairs on the beach on the southwest end of the lake, but I want an unobstructed view for my camera. While I set up the tripod, mosquitoes bump against my face, thankfully discouraged by herbal repellent. Then we wait for it to get dark. Suddenly, the sky across the lake bursts with sound and light, shimmering reflections in the water.

The finale comes all too soon, a cacophony of rapid-fire multiple explosions layered one on top of the other. Then silence. Is it over? The crowd at the end of the lake cheers and claps. Yes, it's over for another year. We turn on our flashlights and slog back along the swampy path, eyes and ears still dazzled by the show.

hooded merganser

hooded merganser

with wounded wings flees from my

inept rescue attempts

This story begins and ends with a small white feather. I find the first one lying on golden pine needles, then a few more scattered along the path through tall pines on the west side of Pleasant Lake. Seeing so many feathers, I surmise that some bird ran afoul of a four-legged predator.
          After I cross a little wooden foot bridge, I catch sight of movement in the bushes, some kind of brown bird, awkwardly thrashing through the undergrowth. At first I think it must be a baby that can't fly yet, but it is rather large. The bird keeps flopping and falling over, and when I get a clear view I see that it can't fly because its wings are broken, the left wing ragged and bent forward, the right wing nearly torn from the bird's body.
          The bird has a striking crest of cinnamon feathers on top of the head like an open fan, a long, pointed black beak, round golden eyes, black feet and a short tail. Her plain brown color suggests that she is a female, but I've never seen a bird like this. Later, my birder friend identifies the bird as a female Hooded Merganser, a small duck native to North America. Short-distance migrants, they move north in the spring as the weather warms up. Mergansers are monogamous and this female probably has a mate and a nest, though hopefully containing only eggs, not babies.
          As I continue to follow the mysterious bird through the brush, the frantic duck, driven by fear, rolls down the muddy bank of the stream, falls into the shallow water, and flounders with her head sinking under, unable to right herself. Afraid that she will drown, I rush over, lift her up by her feet and place her on the bridge. She just lies there quietly, the raw red wound of the torn wing painfully obvious. 
          What to do? In a flash, I remember the Bird Lady at Morningstar Farm who rehabilitates raptors. Years ago I brought two redheaded woodpeckers to her after I found them on the highway. The one with the broken wing survived and the Bird Lady was able to release it, but the one with the broken leg had been down too long. I feel a surge of hope that this duck, injured recently, might be rescued. But how to get the bird to her? 
          I'm afraid to just pick her up because she will struggle out of my hands. I figure I'll wrap the bird in my jacket for protection. But as I start to take it off, the duck flops off the bridge into the stream and disappears under the bridge. Now what?
          We play hide and seek for awhile, the duck popping out on the opposite side of the bridge from where I'm peering. Finally, I withdraw up the path for awhile. When I sneak back, she is huddled on the path on the far side of the bridge. When she sees me, she starts hobbling away into the brush and down the creek. I give up trying to chase her, feeling helpless to help her. 
          But I walk away feeling guilty that I didn't do enough to aid a living creature in distress. Her chances of survival are pretty slim. She's in shock from the wound, she can't fly and she can't dive for food. After I'm far from the bridge, it occurs to me that perhaps the humane thing to do would be to put her out of her misery. But I can't bring myself to do that.
          The next day I return with a towel and a box, but the only evidence I find of the Hooded Merganser is one small white feather on the bank of the stream.
          My wise friend says that the mind holds onto guilt, whereas the light of love just wants to enter through the back door of the heart and flood it with forgiveness. It will take some time, she says, so just stay open.

cloaked by freezing fog

cloaked by freezing fog

dark apparitions hover --

memory of trees

Opening the gate this morning, I am wrapped in a pale blue muffler of freezing fog. A pair of white tails bounds into the woods, vanishing in a heartbeat, slashes of bright white swallowed by fuliginous white. The frozen lake gets a second coat of freezing fog, flocking every branch and vine. The blurred forms of dark pines along the shore seem like the mere memory of trees, phantoms floating between white and white.