Zona


How did the flip-flop become the national shoe and the hibiscus our national flower? Life is a beach and what better place to be than at ocean’s side. What has touched off this train of thought? Pick of the Litter, the label from an Arizona brand ice tea bottle. The paper with red-pink cherry blossoms jutted out from the grass at the park attracting my eye as I drove in like a bee to pollen.

A pair of herons flew high near the turtle sculpture, entering an opening in the mass of sycamore trees, then wafting like  visible scent over the creek, back again, across rising above the crowns of the trees along the opposite side before gaining altitude and diminishing in size, increasing their distance away from the parking lot on the hill, where the Sleepymobile sat with me inside it in the spot at the 4 lamp where there is a B spray painted in the wealth corner of the angled parking slot.

The odd brown duck fed on grass, tugging at the greens along the edge of the creek. It was alone, although not too far behind it stood a small crane in the creek practicing what we might call the virtue of stillness and what to the fishing bird is a necessary posture in order to eat.

As I walked across the bridge and down the ramp that leads to the path with its fine stone screenings, the heron at from this vantage point seemed to be standing on its own body – the reflection of its brownish almond body held clear and strong in the brackish water, as though all the suspended particles the current carries had congealed to form a heron body, upside down and it was this substance upon which the heron stood, a kind of rock.

It was delightfull to see three more herons in the creek as I walked. None were very blue, their color was more olive drab, except for the last one that flew, that one looked slate and blue.

I inspected the second bird for color to determine if the environment was making it look brownish or if that was its true color. Overnight rains and cloudy skies befuddled the water and muddied the skies. The third heron stood on tall straight and twiggy stick legs, like comical figure, with impressive bravado, a statement making heron, such as “Here is a woman walking along the creek today with pants that stop at the knees and a blue top, enjoying the air and fishing for things to write about. Never mind about the sad wet dead bird by the bridge. A chipmunk, a cardinal and a groundhog are out and about, stirring, a fly line flicked and flirted above the water just a minute ago and the Three B’s happens this weekend: Blades, Bikes and Boards. Could her name be Lavagna?”

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