Monday, June 13, 2005

Blue (Heron) Monday

editor’s note: most of the photos I’ve linked below were taken by others at the location being described; one duck, one grebe, the big mechanical thing, and the “wading” photo were all taken elsewhere but were too effectively illustrative not to be included.  Just in case you thought I was trying to pull a fast one.

Monday mornings have something of a reputation - hard times, experienced through veils of irritation and lethargy; a too-short weekend run aground on the sorry shoals of another work week.  Well, I’m here to suggest a different approach.  Over the past several weeks, Kel and I have started our mondays on a manifestly other foot - one that runs. 

We’re not big running types - no marathons, no running clubs, no concentrated effort toward greater speed or distance.  We run for personal satisfaction and that’s about it.  We usually run separate routes at different times, listening to different tunes and exerting ourselves at different levels of effort.  But monday mornings, together we share a run around the lake. 

The lake is about half a mile from from our home, and one mile in circumference, so we’re not doing any marathons here.  The air as we reach the six-a.m. sidewalk feels fresh, untouched.  The treetops are in sunlight, but we are in the shade as we work our way to the park, through the rose garden, across the sleeping boulevard and up into magic space.  Trees close over our heads and bamboos and azaleas rustle by our sides; we ascend the steep stone steps cut into the hillside, from which we emerge into a victorian fantasy. 

The lake has a large island in the center and other smaller ones scattered about the periphery.  The main island, Strawberry Hill, rises steeply to a height of nearly 450 feet; as we approach the banks of the lake, a tall cascading waterfall catches the dawn sunrays and purls joyfully over carefully orchestrated outcroppings of manufactured stone. 

We begin to run clockwise, looking out across wide stretches of calm green water, unruffled even by the ducks and geese and grebes and other waterfowl starting their day with us. The only thing that breaks the surface of the water is an occasional curling trail of 100 yards or so of tiny bubbles, stationary, persistent, where the water is being recirculated back into the lake through submerged conduits, looking much like the wake of a small boat made of dreams.  For months, park staff had worked to clean and repair the lake bottom with aquamogs - but now the ‘mogs are gone and only the results of their labors remain: healthy emerald water populated by all manner of birds and turtles and fish and eels. 

We proceed around past the chinese pagoda out across from us on the island, its red columns and green tiles and ceramic dragon finials daring the sunlight to compare with its cheerful brightness, doubled in liquid mirror reflection.  As we run we can see ducklings molting their down and maturing before our eyes; the goslings and little swans stomp around with their parents, learning the delicate art of survival.  We continue past the rustic bridge and around the western bank of the lake, cloistered in shadow, the air redolent of oxygen and life.  We skirt the sheltered shallows, stride smoothly aroudn the back of the pond where the muscovies and mallards waddle calmly, herding their broods....

And then, within sight of the boathouse, we come to a stop, looking aloft, watching in wonderment.  A small rocky island juts from the water here, several dozen yards from the banks, covered with dense vegetation and several tall cypress trees with thick trunks that stretch skyward, their broad crowns spread out broadly under the pale sky.  And atop one of these, greeting the sun, stands a great blue heron, neck crooked majestically, ruffling wide wings. A towering bird on a towering tree, peering out into the sunrise over the lake and park and city.  We stand, breath barely clouding now, in silence save the chorus of birdcalls that carpets the air around us, watching the heron far overhead watch the world awaken.

From the left, another arrives, its six-foot span of translucent wings an affirmation of the possible.  These are birds that seem to defy physics - too long in the neck and leg and too broad of body to appear flightworthy when seen wading for their breakfast, piercing the water with scimitar beaks - but this one is aloft and circling, slowing, hovering, landing with heavy wingbeats in an adjacent treetop on the island; it spreads and then folds its wings and settles in for the son et lumiere of daybreak.  They stand still and watch, and we move on - continuing around the lake, back down the steps, through the garden of non-lingam, back down the hill, back home again.  Across the street from our flat the feral plum trees are heavy with bright fruit.  I steal a plum; it is crisp and sweet. 

And that’s how to start a monday morning.  Wish me luck for tuesday; and the same to you, my friend.