Pick of the Litter, a piece of black plastic crate, finds its way across my path through the parking lot this morning. Plastic, beached.

   Inertia has set in.  I shift my car into drive and it carries me to the Tulpehocken creek, where I disembark, walk and wonder about things. 

   Couple of hawks, couple of herons, couple of people, couple of days until my birthday, couple of items of business and a couple of library books due today. One book is about stamps.

    If you were here and were to look up, you would find the sky is sapphire and uninterrupted by clouds, with the claws of bare black walnut tree-tops reaching into the view as if to grab the hawks as they fly overhead.

   Seeing the hawks reminds me there are lots of bald eagles reported at Conewingo dam area, where the fishing is easy due to the stun-gun effect in the water near the hydroelectric plant. From eye to talon in ten seconds or less.

   Now I cross the bridge at Gring’s Mill dam, where you can look downstream to the right for herons.

   Heron Number One has positioned itself by a concrete pipe which discharges flow into the creek. The bird is on a rock in the creek. The rock is at the tip of a short silt bar. The heron’s neck is invisible, its head pulled in as it stares straight ahead. The silt bar points to a water pool. The pool and the heron look still. The creek, in the foreground, rushes ahead. The heron’s beak is parallell to the surface of the water.

   Upstream of Red Bridge, Heron Number Two replicates the stillness of the first, as if both birds are on the same wavelength, a mile apart. It stands on a line of rocks that forms a string of grey along the opposite shore of the creek. 

   A couple of people pass me on the trail and on the bridge. The herons move, have moved, tilting their heads about twenty degrees more toward the water. I head home.

   I am about to make a daily drawing. The landscape man mows the grass. The grass is wet. I feel fake.

   The name MARY CHOQUE and the date: JUL 28 10 are emblazoned in red on the bottom of the DURO 4 white paper bakery bag that came into my possession this morning. The bag is empty of pastries and full of questions.

   What is Mary Choque like? What does she like to do when she is not making paper bags? I wonder what I was up to on that day and want to ask What were you doing? I can check my calendar, my notebook.  Will I ever see NOV 9 10 reappear and  will I visit the Duro plant promptly? How many bags do they stamp in a day, a week, a lifetime?


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