Friday, July 20--
7:15 a.m.-
I opened the back of the truck and told EZ "okay." She
launched out with great haste, but that's always the case. I paid no attention
as she dove out the door, until a great splashing erupted near shore. I turned
to the water and watched with delight, as she threw up a gush and leapt toward
some ducks. They scattered and quacked--a belligerent crew--who wanted nothing
to do with "DUMB CLUCKS LIKE YOU!" They flapped away splashing
a hell of a ruckus, chased by an old lady barking, "that'll teach
you to cuss us! "
10:45 a.m.-
We are anchored under the darkest shade possible; maple tree branches
spreading close overhead, filtered green, sun shadows peeking. It's hot today.
EZ's snoozing and twitching up front on the deck, anchor rope running tight
right under her neck. Five minutes ago we heard splishy splashing, watched
a big frog hopping across the smooth water. A swift sudden movement stirred
under the surface, then a loud "snap" of vicious teeth chomping.
A frog leg fish dinner and the rest of it's swell. All's quiet again but for
a few burping bubbles and a green froggy smell.
A while ago nature called at my bowels, which then informed me--"it
ain't no picnic in here," that something ought to be done. No toilet
is nearby, just woods and a river. I sat there and thunk, then concluded to
ignore it.
Oh no, I will not. Like a mailbox on fire or a log in the eye, it won't
get any better until put out, I sigh. So we angle toward shore and re-set
the anchor, the flies have awakened and swirl in uproar. EZ rolls on the grass
while I fetch the boat towel. (Grass will not do, it's too narrow.) I squat
in tall weeds after baring my buttocks; flocks of mosquitoes dive-bomb my
white socks. Then they call in the horseflies and a wood tick or two; all
of them chew into my naked behind. I curse and sweep my arms back, then toward
forth, exclaiming insensitive phrases about living up north. All things pass.
I finish myself off and some vicious bugs too.
A butterfly came calling. It landed on an oar, opened gray wings dotted
with spots of blue, patches of orange, hyphens of white. It fluttered to the
sleeve of my T-shirt, stayed a few minutes then moved on to my shoe. Soon
it flitted again and set down on my hand. I turned it to watch it, then put
on my glasses, up close and face-to-face, half-inch antennae with tiny hairs
trembling. In the center of its nose was a long curvy feeler. It dabbed back
and forth along my right hand, exploring, discerning its host in the morning.
He sat there for long, a personal encounter. He finally flew off and went
out of sight, a little lost sorrow. But it was nice for his visit; maybe we'll
see him tomorrow.
This is now the very heart of summer. Growing things are verdant, packed
tightly with life. A cicada is screaming with full summery thrill, in the
hot of the day, that keening high shrill that remembers the soul. It's a sound
once heard we never forget; it goes latent for months, except for short cycles
in the heat of July.