The Cry of the Waterfowl
It is a Monday; anything can happen.
When it rains in the night, for two or three nights in a row, the park that I frequent for my morning walk, smiles in a different way. There is a lot of wheeling and dealing; yesterday, an eagle flew down so low that I could touch it, almost, if I had stretched out an arm, to take a closer look at us.
There are birds as little as butterflies and butterflies as big as birds and all the worms have come out on an exploration, if one is not careful, they get crushed underfoot. But what I love the most, during those days, is the rare cry of the water fowl that sounds somewhere in the undergrowth. It sounds, alternately far away and close, and I can’t make out whether it is in the park, or near the creek behind it. It sounds haunting and mysterious and all of a sudden, there is a new dimension to the simple walk in the park. It feels more like a walk in the clouds.
There is a lot of beauty in life and nature, literally, and metaphorically. Keep your eyes open.
