No...it really isn't all about me. But I (think) I have this amazing work I wrote for my college class that I am super proud of, and have no one to share it with. So I am posting it here. It IS about where Dyleva and I hiked frequently. Be kind.
Ecological vignette: Sandy Beach Jessica Wagner
There is a place
not far from home
where I go for peace.
We came together,
my children and I,
for many years.
And then during Covid,
it became our special site.
A wet lowland area,
surrounded by grassy fields
and deciduous trees.
Nestled in the suburban sprawl,
a perimeter of sand,
around a pond.
We lovingly call it,
“Sandy Beach.”
It’s early morning;
brisk and cool.
The sun is tentative, shining
through a lattice of clouds.
I flex my fingers;
stiff with cold.
I walk along
a solidified trail.
Sand and dirt and water,
has compacted the earth.
It has rained,
not long ago.
There is a chorus
of birds in the trees.
Warbling and trilling,
simultaneous, in unison.
Each pitch, each timbre
fusing together;
a song interlaced
like the branches of the trees
entwined together.
The birds’ melody
heavy in the air,
draping from the limbs
of the trees
stretching to the sky.
Too many chirps and tweets
to identify correctly.
Once I memorize one call,
another starts up and
changes the melody.
They must be sharing,
their plans for the day,
as the birds
continue to cry out.
I shuffle through the trees,
ash, oak, walnut, maple
every flavor perfumes the air.
Earthy. Damp. Natural.
I come upon a clearing.
The land opens wide
spilling into a grassy gap
out of the forest.
Up on my right,
I approach the pond.
The first thing we look for,
when my children and I come,
is the water level.
Our favorite days,
are when it is high.
My son stands,
on a raised patch of earth,
and vehemently proclaims,
“This is Dylan Island!”
My daughter stands
upon a boulder,
jutting out of the water.
She ecstatically yells,
“¡Isla de Eva!”
They have claimed the land,
much like their forefathers.
Today I sit,
on that boulder,
surrounded by sand.
I look down.
It is gathered at my feet.
I see the impressions
of my footsteps.
Images on a blank screen.
The sand is sad.
It misses the water.
Millions of grains
desperate to swim.
It is quieter here,
the birds have subsided.
And I am further
from the trees.
Their misty outline,
shadow the sun.
A lone male duck,
swims passively in the pond,
as empathetic wind
breathes ripples
across the water.
I wonder
what the duck is thinking.
I wonder
are ducks friends with geese?
I wonder
is the duck able to communicate
with different species of birds?
I wonder
if it is a racist duck.
I look down
into wet sand.
There are paw prints
freckling the ground.
I imagine
an excited pup
running back and forth
over the sand,
without a leash,
enjoying the freedom
of the moment.
I walk a bit,
discover evidence of a fire.
Suffocated embers
and burnt, tarnished sticks;
proof of previous presence.
I wonder
why no one is here,
relishing the morning.
I feel selfish delight,
enjoying my solitude.
And a little guilty
not having to share.
Not having to share,
polite conversation.
Distracting me,
from my thoughts.
Just me and
the decisive duck.
The duck doesn’t mind,
if I don’t talk.
Not far in the distance,
I hear traffic,
in the periphery.
Cars speeding and
trucks downshifting.
I imagine
On their way to soccer practice.
On their way to work.
On their way to Walmart.
On their way to breakfast.
On their way to church.
I am at my church.
The delicate waves,
are lapping the shore.
I wonder
what do they do
when their water level is low.
The fish and the frogs
and the turtles and snails.
Do they move closer together?
Do they share resources?
Do they ration?
As their habitat
slips away.
And I wonder
what we will do
when our fresh water runs out,
when the land can no longer
sustain food for our population,
when the oceans become
saturated with CO2,
when the atmosphere
becomes our enemy.
Will we move closer together?
Will we share resources?
Will we ration?
Or will it continue;
the “Tragedy of the Commons.”
The wind has picked up.
It dances gracefully
across the water.
I shun it disrespectfully
as I move my body downwind
to protect from the gusts.
I wonder
what factors contribute
to the level of the pond.
Sometimes I come
after weeks of precipitation
and the water is so low;
with patches of exposed sand,
roots permeating through debris
of rock and moss and mud.
I have explored
the other side
of the reserve.
There are houses
being built
in the distance.
Is this development
an environmental red flag?
And I wonder
if the houses are truly needed.
Are there people without?
A local demand for more housing?
Or is it just greed and money
paving the way,
devouring our natural resources,
developing every square mile,
drinking up the pond.
The sun is battling
its path through the clouds.
I feel the warmth
penetrating through my fleece,
gradually warming my back
as it rises slightly
over the trees.
Canadian geese fly by,
saluting from above.
I look intently,
around the landscape.
It was breathless;
as it survived,
its trek though winter.
But now there is life.
It is breathing.
Inhaling the bad;
carbon dioxide.
Exhaling the good;
oxygen.
I am most appreciative.
A symbol of spring;
diminutive buds
sprouting slowly,
natural and earthy,
forming on branches
stretching out to the sun.
I return to the trail.
A perimeter around the pond.
Known as “the loop.”
About a mile around.
Twenty minutes if one hustles.
The ground is rockier now;
stones and pebbles and gravel,
fragments of limestone,
and other sedimentary rock.
Conifers leading the path.
Spiky sage trees,
pointing out of the ground,
like a giant caterpillar
inching its way up the hill.
Crunchy leaves and pine needles
sit in decomposition
at the base of every tree.
Steady sloping mounds
guide the path ahead.
Reeds beckoning out
at the water’s edge,
as if to say,
“Hello!” to the sky.
As I move,
I am moving to the west.
The sun is on my back.
I can feel its warmth.
It creates a giant shadow
upon the ground,
showing its power,
to mitigate the rays.
From the other side
of the pristine pond,
the sun now glistens
across the water.
My fingers are slowly
regaining circulation.
I breathe deep and
smell presence of a skunk.
Its strong essence
announcing its arrival.
Somewhere hidden
amongst the trees.
I am confused and uncertain,
as I think on skunks.
I thought them nocturnal.
Crow above me agrees,
with its emphatic “Caw, caw!”
“Yes, Yes, should not be here!”
The water is deeper here
on this side of the pond.
And the face of the landscape
is steeper as well.
I continue moving
through the loop.
I see velvety moss
carpeting the water’s edge.
I stare in the water.
It laps the shore
beckoning a visitor.
But I see no fish.
The water wrinkles,
it is calling on immersion,
“Come and play!”
“Come and swim!”
“Come and be!”
But I see no fish.
I wonder
Where are they?
How do they just appear
randomly one day?
How can a species
regenerate itself?
And then I wonder
how can we control
our population?
It seems unethical.
Someone without a heart
must make that decision.
I once thought
that covid must be
a mechanism from nature
to curb our population.
And then I felt shame.
But in light of our
impending inexistence,
it seems senseless
to argue about some issues.
Issues such as abortion.
I scan the narrow trail
up the side of the cliff.
Almost to the end.
Looking down at the ground,
I see a patchwork quilt.
A camouflage pattern
of dead grass
and shiny jade moss;
colors interwoven,
sewn together in connection.
Like republicans and democrats,
leading the way
up the hill.
Back to reality.
I follow the trail,
to the end.
I think of my thoughts.
Today is not the day
to come up with solutions.
Maybe tomorrow.
There are seed pods;
Flat and taunt,
littering the soil.
Symbols of rebirth
Symbols of new beginning
Symbols of rejuvenation
Hope.
Hopefully tomorrow.
