When I drive toward the park, I see a heron in the stream, glistening in the morning sunshine and a photographer taking a picture of it and I am remotely sorry not to have my Coolpix with me.
When I disembark from my Aveo and get onto the trail, it looks like a second heron has turned the tables us – it looks like it is watching us instead of us watching it. I am more sorry not to have my camera with me. The take-home is a memory, not a photograph.
A fellow park visitor/artist and I meet. She pulls out her ear buds. Ruth is done with her run and warns me a photographer is ahead, around the bend, taking a picture of a heron.
When I get to that spot, the photographer is vanished. The bird stands erect and linear, with more enhanced and a multiplicity of colors, not just blues and greys, but white and sepia and rust. The water in the creek ripples and this motion reflects on the long bird’s long neck, as motion graphics travelling from head to breast.
It is a perfect halcyon day of low humidity and blue skies and the air is redolent with the sweetness of wild rose, which can deliver a stiff dose of pollen when conditions are right. I am so glad to be on foot. Sufficient signs of water to say it may have rained again last night.
One paper pick of the litter: a banana colored finger that reads: Warning: This helmet is not for motor vehicle use. Don’t we have enough trouble getting people to wear seatbelts?