My Meadows

Sunday school over, I head to the river with my kayak. A cormorant couple is diving for fish and I hold my breath, waiting for them to surface. Seagulls float overhead in a clear blue sky punctuated by the remains of last nights moon. Gentle swells carry me up and down as I begin my trek. Crabbers wave then pull in their tasty haul. The tide is coming in so I paddle against the current until I reach the creek mouth. Then I use my paddle as rudder and just float along under the warm september sun.

Another day in the meadows. My meadows are fields of marsh grass and fragmites, with an occasional bunch of purple loosestrife, growing out of ripe and slimy, black sucking mud, hence the scientific name muck (mud + suck = muck). I’ve been prisoner to that muck up to my thighs and the smell…it takes a good scrubbing to get it off. The detritus of our civilization, the black mounds and the water runoff that is filtered here are teeming with wildlife.

Huge carp jump for an unlucky fly while minnows sparkle and splash silver like a handful of coins thrown into the brackish water. The shy blue heron alights then flies away just as I float near, always staying two steps ahead while the even shyer fiddler crabs, with their muscle bound claw, quickly scramble sideways into their burrows. The muskrats too are rarely seen but their myriad tunnels through grass and mud are everywhere, and are the roots of many small side branches of this creek.

Overhead swifts jet through the air and the blackbirds surprise with their flash of red wing. Monarchs are out and about. Their orange wings a beautiful contrast against the sky. A yellow butterfly flits at the edge of my vision, as does the knowledge that I must return home.