Waning days
Of summer,
The sun
Creeps
Up the backside
Of the eastern ridge of rock.
It breaks free,
Comes fully into the morning sky,
But from an ever more southerly direction.
With no hindranceTo its passage,
The light
Beams its way into open spaces,
Flooding the meadow
Between the mountains,
Dazzling the tansy,
And coaxing the oxeye daisies
Into surrendering
The night's collection of dew.
As the sun approaches its zenith,
Rays of greatest intensity
Shoot downward,
Penetrating the upper canopy
Of the forest,
Finding space enough
Between the towers of ancient trees
To transform
The more ordinary foliage of an undercover specimen
Into a veritable burning bush.
Its passage thus diverted,
The light
Slips silently
Onto the earth,
And moves in dappled pools
Over roots and rocks,
Edges itself across the mat
Of leaves and needles
Left in a former season
To form a carpet on the forest floor.
Traveling thus sideways,
The light continues to move,
Until it comes to rest,
Momentarily,
Upon the feathery fronds
Of ferns
Grown as tall
As available space
And the carrying capacity
Will allow.
And there,
Upon the surface
Of such fairy fragility,
The weight of sunlight
Is of such inconsequence
That the ferns
Reach up to greet it,
Embracing its energy
And assuming the aura
Of divine radiance it bestows upon them.
Practice with a handmade fishing pole begins at an early age. On the bank of Railroad Creek this Sunday morning, young Aiden and sister Vivien try their luck using a stick pole with a washer for a weight. There did not seem to be either a hook or bait of any kind.
Before you know it, the young ones grow up to be adults, and sometimes luck improves with age and experience...and better fishing gear!
