In evening light

Early evening the rain finally stopped an hour or so ago hosts of clouds now rushing across the sky shades of grey blue splashes of torn white light dappled furling unfurling stumbling dissolving wisps. At once the world outside my window is a wash of golden light the green on green forest wall thick lush and luminous.
Times like this you know that you are blessed to be here. Times like this you know that you are blessed to times like this a blue heron you spot the lightning a moment before it strikes dart out of reach hover in your world between surface and bottom current heart beating a mile a minute more than just a little shocked. The tall threat a blur in bullrush and reed now shaken but wiser you swim deeper out of reach. Heron foiled strikes the surface ones twice three times in rapid succession stretches her long neck gives it a shake spreads broad wings wide and ever so slowly lifts out of the shallows off the river follows the clouds.
From a twisted branch Kingfisher watches it all never taking his eyes off of the meal watching watching it swim into ever deeper water away from the shelter of shadow and grass like a bullet drops from the branch head first with a splash sunlit spray deep dive up and out empty beak rattles flaps erratic upriver complaining all the way.
Spotting the flash of heron was once lucky something else before the nightmare splash of Kingfisher who knows what that was. Now you just want the last of the sunlight rushed into darkness.
Osprey sits on the edge of her nest atop a slightly leaning pole tower. She sees the flash escape the old bird who in any case serves well to mark meals for her nestlings. Glancing up she knows her mate is circling and has missed none of this so wise and swift around and around he spirals ever lower. Moving sharp eyes ever so slightly she keeps them on both the fish and the fisher. Fish hawk. Fish eagle. Master she smiles. For his part the trout is simply hovering dazed waiting for darkness knowing the better choice would be to swim straight from the river mouth into the rapids of the feeder creek now. It is already dark there sheltered and so much less threat from the sky world. The sky world. Keen curved talons hard fierce sudden crush fill his life the river gone shocked skyward lifted twisting thrashing swimming no water forever falling away. The osprey screams rolls drops quick his mate charging toward the eagle always the waiting eagle after the catch she is not fast enough and the eagle always the eagle is upon him he rolls again once twice. Shrieks enraged. A nine inch speckle trout is flying free falling falling smacks the surface of the Middle River and sinks to the bottom on his side tail twitched upright for a moment then back on his side in the sand. Two osprey chase the rogue eagle all three toward the last trace of cloud and storm.
I never see all of this at once but it is there in moments spotted captured fragments unfolding always outside my window.  When I sit down in golden evening light to write and wonder what chance will appear from nowhere it arrives the shy one wishing to be told. A brief cloud twist twirl of sand where a small protagonist rested for a long moment waiting for life to return one more time. And we are away. Leaving the river behind and following the stream finally into the deep night.
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3 thoughts on “In evening light

  1. “… the shy one wishing to be told…”

    Beautifully told, this drama of life and death and survival and rogue and pair and nest and stream. From within a window looking out and through a window seeing inward. If I had such a window, I’d write only of the river.

    • Thanks Carolin. The river is a constant source of direct and indirect inspiration. My studio/office overlooks our gardens and the river. It’s modest but half of one wall is window. 90% of my practice, working and creative time is spent in this space. And I never take it for granted.

      • It sounds idyllic, Chris.
        Other than my restaurant kitchen, I’ve never had a studio space for creative work or writing. Last summer I moved to a house with a small, flowering vine-covered, detached garage adjacent to the the pale yellow, 1941 house in a mature garden. Tomorrow a carpenter is coming to look at it to give us an estimate for finishing the interior. I hope to turn it into my library and writing space. It won’t have an inspiring view, but there are charming paned windows on each side which look out into the garden.

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