My field
At the edge of the land, there is a field ...so close to the Bay that you can smell its saltiness. The field has a bit of bay of its own; a marsh, which daily is flushed out by the Bigger Bay's fresh tides.
There are plants in this field. Many, many plants. Plants unlike those any one has ever seen. They are low to the ground, inconspicuous - but closer inspection reveals that they are woven into a tight network of interlocking stems, interspersing roots, and overlapping flowers. A small microclimate of life, vitality, lays at a height no greater than a runner's shoe.
And there are birds in this field. They live on an island; a sandbar that appears and disappears as the tides ebb and flow. Caspian terns, Western gulls, cormorants - an occasional pelican or two. There's even a great white egret, a snowy egret, and a bounty-hunting blue heron who roams the grasses on the other side of the marsh, looking for gophers. I've seen it with them, too - worrying the ground-dweller from side to side with vigorous shakes of its head, its neck no longer fragile-looking but rather taut with aggression - tearing the poor creature apart limb from limb, so it can pick and tear at it more later as it eats it - but for now just killing the creature with rhythmic smacks that echo across the green.
Ever since I saw it in 2001, I've kept my eyes wide open for blue herons.
And around the field is a trail. It is frequented often - by dog walkers, dog haters, runners, plant specialists, birders, tourists, and schoolkids alike - all seeking their own perspective, their own interaction, with the field. A mezcla of people as diverse at that in the Mission district, the place where my mother and my earthly possessions reside, most of the time.
And along the trail, near the white benches that look like white-concrete slabs laid prostrate - there I am. Watching the waters move, the sun glinting off of them. I could be waiting to see when the great Gilden bridge re-materializes, momentarily trapped in the fog's blanket ...or I could be waiting for the sunset. Or neither - I could merely be lost in thought, contemplating the stunning beauty around me or something unrelated, that only I can see, lost, as I am, in my heart and mind...
I could be anywhere.
The field could be anywhere, but to me it is frozen in time. Like my memories. Maybe someday I will return to find that those schoolchildren have grown up and that those plants - which I spent hours planting, from 9 to Noon most Saturday mornings for two years ...are gone. Or maybe they never were. But somehow, I still believe that they will be waiting for me.
The field sighs. It is not an unusual thing; nature is always moving, never stagnant. Lest our memories become stagnant also, we must return and seek out the moments that forever we are missing. Missing - because we are looking in all the hard places. And hard is good, sometimes. But for now, look and see what is before you, for it only passes once...
The field exhales, and I am free. Free, but returning hours later to a field which never I left.
There are plants in this field. Many, many plants. Plants unlike those any one has ever seen. They are low to the ground, inconspicuous - but closer inspection reveals that they are woven into a tight network of interlocking stems, interspersing roots, and overlapping flowers. A small microclimate of life, vitality, lays at a height no greater than a runner's shoe.
And there are birds in this field. They live on an island; a sandbar that appears and disappears as the tides ebb and flow. Caspian terns, Western gulls, cormorants - an occasional pelican or two. There's even a great white egret, a snowy egret, and a bounty-hunting blue heron who roams the grasses on the other side of the marsh, looking for gophers. I've seen it with them, too - worrying the ground-dweller from side to side with vigorous shakes of its head, its neck no longer fragile-looking but rather taut with aggression - tearing the poor creature apart limb from limb, so it can pick and tear at it more later as it eats it - but for now just killing the creature with rhythmic smacks that echo across the green.
Ever since I saw it in 2001, I've kept my eyes wide open for blue herons.
And around the field is a trail. It is frequented often - by dog walkers, dog haters, runners, plant specialists, birders, tourists, and schoolkids alike - all seeking their own perspective, their own interaction, with the field. A mezcla of people as diverse at that in the Mission district, the place where my mother and my earthly possessions reside, most of the time.
And along the trail, near the white benches that look like white-concrete slabs laid prostrate - there I am. Watching the waters move, the sun glinting off of them. I could be waiting to see when the great Gilden bridge re-materializes, momentarily trapped in the fog's blanket ...or I could be waiting for the sunset. Or neither - I could merely be lost in thought, contemplating the stunning beauty around me or something unrelated, that only I can see, lost, as I am, in my heart and mind...
I could be anywhere.
The field could be anywhere, but to me it is frozen in time. Like my memories. Maybe someday I will return to find that those schoolchildren have grown up and that those plants - which I spent hours planting, from 9 to Noon most Saturday mornings for two years ...are gone. Or maybe they never were. But somehow, I still believe that they will be waiting for me.
The field sighs. It is not an unusual thing; nature is always moving, never stagnant. Lest our memories become stagnant also, we must return and seek out the moments that forever we are missing. Missing - because we are looking in all the hard places. And hard is good, sometimes. But for now, look and see what is before you, for it only passes once...
The field exhales, and I am free. Free, but returning hours later to a field which never I left.
posted by Yvea at 8:22 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home