Well, not much. The waters are still, the toads have thankfully corked the tuba-calls for now and not even the geese are cutting currents across the waters. In the pasture north of the pond, the horses are up. They were sleepy-heads yesterday morning, bedded beneath the old apple tree.
Horses have humor. It's also said that horses reflect their owners. Now, I'm not Piston's owner, but lately, we've been bonding, enough to think he's picking up on my sense of "let's have fun!" I laugh at his toy-tossing and snap a quick shot for later, then slip back into bed until I can smell the coffee Todd brews.
June 4, 2013 10 a.m. Pond Report:
A-ha! I see you Blue Heron! Stealth-stalking frogs once more is my favorite long-legged pond bird. Blue Heron is wary of me, though. The minute I step outside, ever so careful to close the door quietly, he's ducked into the reeds. I sing, he hides. Such is our fragile relationship.
|Blue Heron in Reed Pose|
|Prowling This Way...|
|...And That Way|
Yet, by what name does an osprey go? A hawk? A raptor? My bird book says, diurnal...this is venturing into Todd's territory. I'm good with the story flow, he's the master of correct details. Diurnal? That only leads me to terms like "accipitridae" and "falconidae." Ospreys are "pandionidae." Yet, the classification is based on ancestry.
Just like in the "Book of Joshua" with all those names that muddle about in my brain. I can't remember them, but I read, recognizing their importance. And, I know that osprey descend from an ancient family, too.
Ah...but there's Blue Heron again! I watch him eat a bull frog, legs poking out his mouth and a huge lump bulges in his outstretched neck. And I rejoice.
June 4, 2013 4 p.m. (or so) Pond Report:
Todd gets out his fly-rod and strings the reel. It has been so long, but the old excitement creeps into my bones and I remember adventures from when we were fly-flingers in Montana. He flung flies at fish, cussed and I watched kids clamber over granite boulders. In Minnesota we flung flies together in one of the few cold-spring fed streams in the southern part of the state.
We call it fly-flinging because we didn't actually catch fish, which is my favorite type of fishing.
|Ready to Fling Flies|
|June Sky Reflected in the Pond|
We chat and I mention Piston's new toy.
"Piston?" she asks, "You mean Pistol."
|Looking South Across the Western Edge|
"And the mare is Spark?" I ask, knowing I'm already wrong.
"Snatch," she answers. And I laugh; how could I forget a name like that!
|Flinging Flies on the Eastern Edge|
Todd gives up the fishing part of his curiosity and comes back to where we stand in the wet grass on the edge of Elmira Pond. He hasn't met Justine's wife (I know it's Justine because he gave me his business card and he looks like the kind of cowboy to be named after boots).
"Todd, this is Justine's wife, Christine," I introduce.
"Uh, it's Liz." They shake hands and I shake my head.
"Yeah, and I was wrong about the horses, too." I wonder if after 25 years Todd just accepts he'll be relearning any name I tell him. That's grace.