[1] The pages on which I write this are damp, for I had previously placed beech leaves, nearly transparent, bleached of all color, which I had fished out from the creek bed between them as bookmarkers. The ink of my pen bleeds a little, blue spidering out in many directions all at once, especially in the grooves of the patterns that the leaves have left. A pattern of leafiness. Isn’t this what we leave too, when we go wherever we go in that long autumn?

[2] A March Sunday morning like no other – echoing that well worn proverb, you don’t step into the same river twice. The constant sun falls on this little rock beach when the wind sifts the cloud screens. The rocks, suddenly, take distinctive colors in that new light. The hand reaches to pluck from them a small pebble shaped like a pendant, which was shining. Such is also the nature of remembering. Such is also the sudden epiphany of grace.

[3] Two mallards – with the coming of spring every bird, however solitary it may have been before, is now seen with its double – are floating down the creek. They don’t have to paddle their duck legs for the current propels them downstream like two boats loaded to the top with green jade. Soon they are beyond the bend, and are gone from sight. In the viscid mind the images, too, sinks from sight. This transitoary line, when read by me, perhaps in another life, will be the only record of this sighting.

[4] In that country, penitents stand on one leg, face the ochre sun of the tropics, and pray. In this country, he is standing on both his legs, facing the sun, under which a couple of Canada geese are standing similarly, on one leg, almost without any effort, taking an afternoon nap.

[5] A walker strides under the March sun, his eyes screened from the light by sunglasses, his ears filled with a bass noise, which spills and trails behind his back. One person less then, with whom I will have to share this banquet of blooms, birdsong, and yellow butterflies with backs still wet from their long sleep.

[6] On days like today, when the rushes on the banks bend, Lullwater sashays at the bottom of the hill, cloaked in silver glitter, impenetrable to the human eye, shadows of wings, or the gaze of traveling clouds. This till the wind dies down and carries its dress away.

[7] To my right, in one corner of the lake, young males of the Canada Geese family, huff, puff, and honk loudly at one another, beating the water with their wings, as they reenact old rituals of dominance. On the other hand, figuratively and literally speaking, this solitary bird (very much after my own heart) slowly and meditatively glides the waves. [8] A red ant clambers up the leaf of grass, which is resting against my face, and soon it is striding across the stubbly sahara of my jaw, invisible to my down turned vision, calm and purposeful in its scouting mission that seamlessly spans the flesh of both grass and skin.

[9] When the wind dies down, suddenly voices intrude that corner of space that you now occupy. You hear the hoot of a rail engine, the rattle of motorcycles, indecipherable human speech of a boy and a girl lying in the grass further down on their stomachs – all this till wind picks up again and wipes the slate clean.

[10] After lying on this log that juts into the creek at this junction of mingling waters – a small stream from the surrounding wooden hillsides joins the broader silver gold belt of the creek – you get up on you knees, lean forward to place your hand in the chill water to feel the flow of all the things of this world that are liquid: blood, breeze, rustling grass, even gratefulness for this brilliant day and affection for that she, who now happens to be, temporarily, far away.

scribbled at Lullwater, 03/12/2006