A famous “S” decisions to make manicure, pedicure and coiffure, banker to see, kitty litter to clean, cartesian quandrants in the garage and litter on the street. A heron skimmed over the still creek surface along the first part of the middle mile, then braked and alit in the near side of the stream, its head peeking above the line of the meadow like a periscope from the sea. It strutted, strided and glided and ;ooked brown. I walked to the ruins of a lockkeeper house 16 by 20 feet of limestone and sandstone foundation that has spokes of purple and white phlox rising from it.
Several patches of different descendants on the path, the catkins of the hickory ? tree, pea size petals of apple blossoms that form speckled shadows under the crowns overhead and areas with maple seeds, some the same size and some with widely varying dimensions. It is almost like driving on a road and entering, experienceing and leaving the towns along the way – each with something distinct about it and all long the same line that becomes not the same line at the same time.
At the end of my walk, near the mill bridge, another heron stood tall and erect, poised on a pointed rock, like a mountain climber on the highest ascent of a great peak and stretched like an actor, with an invisible string pulling the top of its head toward heaven. A dead mole lay on the path near red bridge, among some pulled onion grass stems. That is my report for Wednesday May 18, 2011, National Museum Day.