On The Greenbelt

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On The Greenbelt
Spring 2006 - High Water!

April 27th
May

Remarkable High Water Spring of 2006
Every week have to go down to look at the flooding river. Most trails I walked when I came to Boise would be underwater. We can still walk 'til nearly the side bridge on the Glenwood section that's been closed for months now. Now only to the start of roses. Overnight poison ivy came up--nothing one evening; foot high the next! Kids look for asparagus and morels. Probably do well; I never do. Mallards and wood ducks seem unphased. Who knows. Nests surely got flooded or moved. Big winds. Piles of feathers; somebody's lunch. Hard for fishermen (2 legged) and winged while river high and cloudy. Distant owl hoots. Kinda, same, same. No sitings of floating frogs or sunning turtles yet, of course I've been walking when it's cool, due to 90 degree days! Strange, strange!

Fall 2005 - October Color Extravaganza!!

Embarrassed not to have reported on the Greenbelt for a year. Been there, though not often. Felt a little guilty walking the ditch bank recently! After all, if I walk, the Greenbelt has been "it" since moving to Boise. Good to feel like walking again, thank you Dr A.
We're having a beautiful week of Indian summer. Fall colors, new clouds and a full moon thrill me totally! Only fall (Christmas and apples) can get away mixing reds and greens so closely. When I got home and turned on Prairie Home Companion, Garrison Keillor was describing fall colors as those crayons children weren't allowed to use! Yup--outrageous mixtures of yellows, greens, oranges and reds. Plus the pink of the aisle of roses, purple asters and thistle blooms! Even a couple of blue chickory flowers.
Heard widgeon along with mallard and occasional merganser on the low, slow river. Don't think I saw the turtle on the log last summer, but one was there this afternoon! No frogs suspended at the quiet, leaf coated outlet. The blackberries are pretty much gone. Another summer has gone by without harvesting so much as one blackberry--and there's a tangle behind the yard--not to mention another summer without finding more than a half dozen huckleberries! Ach!
Head full of thinking about possibility of relocating back to the midwest. What would fall be like there? Perhaps more colorful leaves and woods; no aspen or tamarack around. I'd probably like a midwest fall a lot. Still remember burning leaves on our brick sidewalk. Wonder if the poison ivy is a colorful as here. Don't want to think about midwest winters or summers; I'd probably hate 'em. However I'm not overly fondly of Idaho's. I'm slipping into sentimental observer as I contemplate leaving Idaho after 10 years, the West after nearly 40. Almost something I can't bare to think about or I won't do it. The tug of old roots, familiar family names, farmland and ravines is remarkably strong. The lesson, of course is to savor this very moment.
Weather still mild, returned the next afternoon, taking nearly 50 photos! A very young couple passed me. On down the trail the commotion ahead turned out not to be frolicking teens, but 2 moms with strollers and young ones on bikes with training wheels. Just as we passed each other, a hawk swooped silent and low from water's edge into bushes carrying a small bird. Oh to have a closer look! Best guess--sharpshinned hawk.
To my surprise the bored looking kid on the backporch who'd been playing Jimmy Buffet's "Margaritaville" loud enough for all to hear on the way in, was still outside. Now Frank Sinatra boomed across the river! Made myself wav to the source of the noise interrupting my blissful day--haha--and got a friendly wave back. Mercifully the 2 neurotic barking dogs on either side of the house for sale were occupied barking elsewhere. Perhaps more blissful dog lovers, deaf to dog cacophony, will move their canines inbetween. Ach!

Fall 2004 - November
Late Monarch!! Headed to the greenbelt--long time no see--on the nippy, sunny first day of November, wearing 2 jackets, wool mitts and hat, and camera! The river sparkled. Didn't see any prizewinning photos (or so I thought), but there was more "action" than one might think midday. Birds sang and swooped. Everyone out and about this lovely day--magpies, flickers; widgeon, wood and mallard ducks; heron, finches and sparrows; proper couples and joggers. No turtles or frogs suspended in the bright green end of season scum at the outlet of the first lake.
I particularly enjoyed watching and hearing leaves fall. My fall fantasy is to somehow photograph a drifting leaf, or group of leaves. Which may explain some of those why-in-the-world-did-I-take that picture!
The surprise of the day occurred when I noticed a monarch butterfly flitting among fallen cottonwood leaves, stopping, aligning open wings to receive maximum sunlight, moving again when I moved too close with the camera. A perfect, untattered beauty--perhaps a late bloomer--like an extra orange with black veined leaf. Hated to make it waste so much as a wing beat of energy. I was alarmed-- shouldn't monarchs be safe and warm in California or Mexico by this time of the year? If I use my frequent flyer miles to send it to Mexico with the label "late monarch"--could it catch-up with the rest of the gang? [A googling I go: Yes indeed, monarchs should be south by now. Somehow it had survived several hard frosts: "Temperatures below 55°F make it impossible for them to fly; temperatures below 40°F paralyze them. The monarchs originated in the tropics and can't live for long at temperatures below freezing. http://www.shgresources.com/id/symbols/insect/"]
The biggest shock came when I learned "The Monarch Butterfly (Danaus plexippus) was adopted as the state insect by the state legislature in 1992. TITLE 67 STATE GOVERNMENT AND STATE AFFAIRS CHAPTER 45 67-4509. STATE INSECT DESIGNATED.... The Monarch Butterfly is a great migrator, traveling many miles during its lifetime, which can be from a few weeks up to a year."
Not 'til near the bulldozed section of the river, did my layers came off. Strolled back with bare hands and head, jacket around waist. Probably looked like a Halloween leftover from last night in navy plaid flannel pants and colorful orange with black fleece jacket. (Every day is Halloween in my closet.) Stopped to study where I'm sure poison ivy used to be. Sometime during the fall, when I'm not looking, colorful red and orange poison ivy simply disappears, melts into the grass!
For every thing there is a season.

Spring 2004 April Lazy Afternoon.... Sunday afternoon, I think it was, trotted along the Greenbelt to see what I could see, check things out such as is poison ivy out yet (no). Rather quiet, down by the riverside--perhaps because it was afternoon, or mid-mating season (though I've noticed with ducks, it's pretty much "whenever"). Rather than flapping off with loud quacks, ducks merely slipped away when I came upon them. Lazy, spring afternoon.
I'm chagrined to have walked the Greenbelt since '97, only noticing turtles this past fall. I've always looked, especially when ducklings disappear. Astonishing how narrow one's vision can be! Probably been there all along, but can't prove it by me. As I stood on a bridge looking at a plate sized turtle sunning, a pair of water level eyes watched below. When did I last notice a floating frog! Fair sized frog suspended with hind feet still covered by leaves under which which s/he clearly spent time. Hear frogs, but rarely see 'em. Where have I been!
When I looped back maybe a half hour later, a fisherman had moved to the bridge. Figured that was the end of my new sightings. "Seen turtles here", the observant young man shared. "Right over there", I pointed. The frog still floated just below us. I covered my eyes each time he cast, recoiling as I recalled the Rocky Mountain National Park ranger who hooked his child.
Shortly after noticing the floating frog, a frog sat right on the trail, mid day. Another new one on me. When s/he didn't move, urged him off the trail with a stick, figuring he was dead, or would be with the next dog. Suddenly he steamed off. Nap time, I guess.
Caught part of a winged drama--pair of magpies dive bombing an occupied nest. But whose was it, really? My first impression was of a plain gray bird like a cowbird claiming the nest. The more I thought, the more I wondered who was there first; both magpies and cowbirds displace residents. I hadn't got a good look at the gray party. Could have been dove or robin. Though I stood awhile, couldn't see who was sitting in the leafy nest in the crotch of a branch. When I returned a few afternoons later, couldn't even find the nest! I think, because cottonwood leaves had opened fuller. Good bye easy birding. Welcome back, swallows!!
Ever hopeful of finding sleepy owls--haven't seen an owl in months, maybe years--two lumps on a branch turned out to be squirrels snoozing nose to nose! One tail was curled over one back, the other was loosely wrapped around the limb. What I thought was a beak sticking out of a cavity in a trunk, was. Flicker with faint red mustache wriggled out. S/he was there yesterday too! (Turtle was too, but no sign of frog.) When I first started walking the Greenbelt a few years back, it was one grand adventure after another, bringing me back day after day. My palm or scrap of paper filled with observations and thoughts. So it was rather like old times--turtles, frogs, what's next?

Fall 2003
October Nothing like an Old Friend
Lately I’ve been reminiscing about all the time I once spent by the river, watching herons and ducks, dogs and bikers; swimming, qigong-ing, walking, reading. Boise’s fine river and paths were a deciding factor to move here, especially after I cooled my hot travelers feet one August afternoon.
For several years I enjoyed an apartment near the river. So many days I had such adventures with Greenbelt folks and wilds, I started writing ‘em up. Glimpsing a weasel made my day. Seeing mom move weasel kids upstream, made the whole season. When I moved “inland”, life changed. Although my feet feel like walking again (after resting a few years), I’m clean outa the habit. I no longer know how the nettle patch is doing, whether the Lewis’ woodpeckers returned. Haven’t seen an owl in ages, or ol' two legged Greenbelt buddies whose paths I used to cross: I’ve dropped out, like a lead sinker!
However, last March when I received the call that mom had died, I instinctively headed for the river—the old friend who listens. Didn’t see much, but returned clearer, more grounded, ready to cancel plans and fly “east” the next day. Who else could witness my dialogue with mom so compassionately. Thank you, river.
Yesterday I stopped on my way home and joined a steady stream of late morning walkers on the Greenbelt. Doesn’t “look” like fall, but it’s finally felt like autumn the last couple of days, following the unusual heat of September and the first week and a half of October. Poison ivy started turning red and brown weeks ago. There’s the odd splash of color here and there, otherwise leaves are still green. Except for the nip in the air, looks like summer. Swallows left some time ago, of course. The river’s murky; backwaters smell strong. The other day, on a short visit, I stood listening to a puzzling call—bird, I think—near a pond. Beats me!
Although there was a nip early September, frost is seriously visiting the backyard of my home. My late, late bearing Brandywine tomatoes—embarrassing to pick the first heavily split giants mid September!—have had a stay of execution. My kitchen looks a bit like Christmas with a shelf full of red tomatoes, an almost red shelf and a shelf of emerald green beauties.
Welcome, colorful fall after the long, hot summer!

Fall 2002
October
Hooooo....
Emailing Seattle friend, waxing eloquent about life in smaller cities (save social disadvantages), I suddenly leaped up guiltily, grabbed keys/hat/coat and headed to the Greenbelt. The call of a beautiful early October evening over-rode my obsession with the new computer. Might as well live anywhere if I'm just gonna veg at the screen! Chilly mornings, winter 'round the corner, catapulted me out the door finally. Is there such a thing as a computer potato?
After observing (out of self defense) the substantial summer collection of dog do decorating trail, the first thing to catch my eye was the abundant poison ivy ground cover, first to turn yellow and orange. In evening light, catalpa leaves looked almost lime green or the color of golden delicious apples. That most abundant shrub with compound leaves whose name I simply cannot learn, is also yellowing. Didn't seem to noticed that locust/ legume like shrub the first years I walked the Greenbelt. This season, it's closing in on the trail like a tunnel in some areas. The yellow-er the leaves, the more the fronds fold close, I think, in preparation to drop. Jack Frost has barely nipped the Greenbelt, tempered by the river as it is. Except for a few red leaves on maple, red is rare (although a stunning landscaping scrub has amazing magenta leaves). Fall is yet subtle. Some willow and cottonwood look as good as new!
Fall smells terrific, I thought, snickering because Garrison Keillor had just say so on his first program of the season. Lefty (or was it Dusty) retorted, "Cow poop is all I smell." No cow poop here, just dog, stagnant river and ponds. I heard wood ducks whistle, saw mallard and widgeon.
Before I reached the turn around, the sky blazed orange through the trees across the river, a sight I never tire of. (I'll never forget the evening the buck swam across the river in the golden sunset.) As I returned, enjoying lit up foothills and looking over my shoulder, the orange gold sunset amplified beginning fall colors and infiltrated the air with that magic glow that happens only now and then. House windows reflected like fire the day's final colors. Awesome.
From a ruckus in the trees, a great horned owl flushed, flying to the far side of the river, with a swarm of magpies in hot pursuit. It sat briefly in a bare tree before flying deeper into the trees. I picked a few roses from the hedge and tucked them in my coat, which by now was peeled off.
At another point I thought I heard distant hooting. Then, further on, an unfamiliar, loud "squawk" puzzled me. Remarkably, despite near dark, looking up, I saw what first looked like a squirrel. About to credit squirrel with the strange sound, wings revealed a small owl. It hollered again, then hoo-hoo- hooted. When a distant series of hoots echoed, it flew upstream, the direction of the reply. Time of the owl!
When I was an enthusiastic new Auduboner, especially smitten by owls, I used to get up early or stay out late "owling". After a decade participating in Christmas Bird Counts in the Rockies and the Northwest, enduring unholy hours and weather, I came to my senses. A timely holiday eye infection put an end to years of self inflicted misery--"can't go this year, eyes messed up!" Although comparing tales of suffering over end-of-count potlucks was grand, how much more delightful to happen onto magnificent hunters of the dark effortlessly, on a beautiful autumn evening!
Spring 2002
April Cha-a-nge Headed down to visit spring on the Greenbelt the other morning. The scent of cottonwood sap wafted here and there. Yup, it's here; started precisely on the first calendar day of spring (March 20th/21st). Temperature must have shifted 20 degrees overnight and frogs sang that very evening. Although I've only seen the occasional swallow, otherwise seems to me events are unfolding, plant and bird wise per schedule--ducks paired and pursuing. I'm waiting on ducklings. The river was finally let out maybe early April, and is nowhere near the high I remember. Seems to me it snowed all winter, but that's not what statistics say.
Delighted to meet gardener friend Larry getting a client's yard whipped into shape. Recognized the thermos on the wall. I could be the numero uno beneficiary of the roses he tends. Good to find another buddy made it through the winter. "See you on the way back", I said, as I headed on down to read my book in the mini-grove near the end of the trail. "Nice spot", he called back.
Surprise! No more shady grove! In it's place: fresh bulldozer tracks. Musta just happened! The sweet icicle tree--gone. Hasta(sp) and forsythias--gone. Picked sticky cottonwood casings away and sat on a rock in the sun and rolled eyes at the impermanence of the world, another special place bites the dust. Last summer, my favorite set of campsites, now my favorite reading space. Breathe, Jeannie. Reading Rolheiser has soothed me a bit; clinging to things of the world causes nothing but pain, I have to agree.
"Did you know (about the dozing)", I asked Larry when I saw him on the way back. "Some work's been done down there", he said, clearly not having spent as many hours in the (former) grove as I had! "Quite a bit", I said, wondering whether I'd ever return.
Everywhere, everywhere, change, change, change! Even perhaps in my own new backyard which I am reclaiming into a meadow, to the horror of "reasonable men". Landscaper Keith shook his head in sharp disapproval when I mentioned this. Remember the covenants, a homeowner rep admonished... (as in, Remember the Alamo?) Something's gotta be left alone in this world!
On the way back the yellow cat whose name I forgot over the winter (and now name tag's gone) walked carefully towards me, shaking sticky cottonwood "pods" (I don't know what they're called!) from her feet. As she rubbed her scent on me, I rubbed sap into her fur--smells so good, you'll like it, I told her! Fair's fair.
A few days later, returning from dropping car at "doctor", biked past the olde forest I once visited regularly, before moving downstream a year ago. Held breath and to my surprise, found it virtually unchanged. Same trash can and bench, not even a new fire pit. Remarkable! The huge notch whittled out of the bench was no deeper. A sense of relief settled in as I stood watching darting warblers high in the big old cottonwoods and box elders. Thank you, Great Spirit, for small things.

Winter 2002
February Moon of Sweet Icicles I've spent my first "real", cold and snowy Idaho winter holed up beside the space heater in permanent long underwear and heavy socks, in my new home, watching snow, fog, and occasional stars and moon. What you went to bed with was no indication of what the next day would bring. Change and surprise were the only constants.
I've watched the world from hot tub level rather than hoofing or post holing the snowy Greenbelt. No time for excuses: just didn't go out. I'm sure I missed a most interesting winter, wimp that I was. Occasionally, when I'd dash down to walk in the last rays of sun, I met my neighbor, individually walking each of her dogs. As I dodge dog piles and dogs, I wonder at all the folks who tell me I oughta get a dog. How little they know of me-- meow!
Today, it looked warm--it wasn't--cudda used a hat--so I headed out, to inspect late winter. Mallards, honkers (Canada geese), widgeon, hooded mergansers, are all paired, like juncos, doves, much of the wild kingdom. Saw only one pied pilled grebe diving; one never knows about those fine divers.
Brrr. I've been tricked! Hunkered down into fleece jacket, pulling hands inside, trying to walk tall and free, ever posture conscious. Too cold to pull that off.
As I began standing by the river for a bit of qigong practice, a sound caught my attention-- could it be spring pods opening in the sun, I thought, noticing box elder buds on the ground? Decided to face the tree and figure out what was going on. Ah ha: something's falling, dripping from trees! Often trees seem to rain, but I seldom take time to figure out just what's going on--sap, pods, bird do, who knows. These drops looked clear. Suddenly it was obvious! No need for a rocket scientist to figure this one. Though I'd never noticed before: from the tips of many small branches, short icicles hung--and dripped--in sunlight! What!
Perhaps heavy river air condenses on nearby trees forming these icicles? Beats me! Have to sleep there to really know, wouldn't I! After standing, I sat in a pool of cold sun and read Studs Terkel. When I left almost an hour later, there were still icicles, confirming how really cold it was! Brrr. Walked back to car, nose in book, until chapter ended. Did I see an osprey silhouette? Kingfisher flew silent. Robins warned. A piece of icicle caught my eye on the trail. Wiped sand away and let it melt in my mouth. I swear it was sweet.
Looks like spring, feels like winter!

Fall 2001

October
No Place Like Home
It's camera season. So lovely today, I could only walk a few yards before reaching for mine again. Even after 4 or 5 years of greenbelt walks, I still hastened to the Greenbelt as soon as I return from travels--at least when weather's as glorious as today's. Perhaps because I've just returned from 3 weeks of the "incomparable" fall foliage of New England, Boise has never looked better. Colors "Back East" were indeed breath taking--gorgeous big old trees in huge yards around incredible huge, old homes. But the woods outside towns seemed puny compared to "Out West". We may try to cut 'em all down and do a good job of it, but "them that survives" are more substantial. Or so my thoughts ran as I enjoyed breath taking gold willows hanging over the nearly still river reflecting still colorful cottonwood and willows across the river. I walked past red and orange maples, scarlet shrubs, red oaks turning brown, tulip trees still green.
Widgeon, mallards, a few Canada geese and wood ducks are on ponds; mergansers on the river. Because of low water, new islands appeared this year. They're covered with vegetation, rather than scoured clean. Smells of stagnation are strong and frequent, often overpowering the subtle scents of fall. As I stood still in the trees, a loud splash came from the river. Having noticed a freshly gnawed young, cottonwood along the trail, my first thought--despite daylight--was: beaver tail slap. But the "scold" of kingfisher followed. Ah, kingfisher on the job.
On the walk back, I paused at a familiar sound. Reaching back to my years in Bellingham, I became surer and surer it was the "chit, chit" of a winter wren, not junco or kinglet. Had I seen winter wren before on the Greenbelt? I was uncertain. Finally in the thick bushes my eyes picked out the unmistakable profile of the jaunty fellow with the call that sounds like pebbles clicking together. For a moment I was sad. I lost my long time bird watcher and mentor, Barbara, this fall. How many, many times we "birded" together, walked the old interurban trail from her home on Chuckanut Bay, or, the Thursday morning birders drove to Skagit Flats to see what we could see. Outings always ended with with tea. As I write this I suddenly realize that winter wren may have been the All's Well I'd asked for from world class story teller, incomparable friend and immortal bird watcher, Barb Smith. I'm slow, but I get it. "Look, Barb, winter wren by Boise River!" Thank you, Barbara, for years of tea and scones, friendship and birding!
On the way home I picked up photos from my travels. Soon I'll drop off the roll I took this morning. After all these years, still trying to capture fall on film! Silly me!

September 2001
Sudden Endings
Now that I'm getting settled in the new home and have survived the summer heat, I've begun walking mornings after almost a summer away. Better to drive the rather short distance to The Greenbelt, than not go at all, I rationalize. Wednesday night, the 5th, clouds brought our first real rain in a very long time; the temperature dropped dramatically. I thought I was "cold" for the first time in months. 'Bye, summer; 'ello, fall. When skies cleared that evening, I slept out on the new porch (where I naturally migrated as soon as it was finished) in tights and flannel. Woke to rain in the middle of the night; groggily dragged damp bedding inside. Before noon skies were again clear.
The Greenbelt still looks like summer to me--I watch for change. Poison ivy's still green; trees going strong. The CD player in the Toyota is on the blink (probably choked from dusty roads); chickadees sounded like they were saying, fix the CD-D-D-D player. Stopped in the paved grove where I love to read to stand in qigong posture a few minutes. A familiar stubby bird fed alone; afterwards I recognized Bobwhite in the birdbook--it's been years! Gonna like this new stretch of Greenbelt ok for qigong practice, I reassured my resistant self. Especially when I heard an unfamiliar woosh and a sharp shinned hawk--it's 4 tail bars in plain sight--landed on a branch not 20' away, with its back to me! Watch out Bobwhite! Never had I been so close to this small, winged predator! Just had to turn my head to watch as I "stood like a tree". A few moments later, it circled around me, as though checking me out, and flew off!
Walking back I paused when I saw an osprey high on a dead brach. Across the river, a second osprey also watched the world from the highest snag. A magpie seemed to be challenging the second osprey, but the big one was unflustered. Closer in I noticed a flycatcher on the top most bare branch of a bush. Then another flycatcher nearby. Everyone out observing the world this morning. Imagine, trying to fill up on flies, I thought, as the small flycatchers darted out and back. Some job.
Suddenly I noticed with the same start I remember feeling ever since first realizing they were missing (which was around fall 1978): swallows are gone! Darn it, they never wave goodbye! Or, maybe I'm not looking when they wave to me. I'm always left surprised, empty, with a touch of sadness, having not said my goodbyes until spring! I so enjoy their skimming, chattering flight, as well as they way they line up on wires. Over the years I've often watched them come and go from their homes, commonly in aspen, river banks, under bridges or eves. They're early migrants south; still it's a non negotiable sign that fall is coming. Cheer up, Jeannie, you love fall!

August 2001
Summer Evenings
While Sue and family were back to town escaping Nevada heat, we headed to the Greenbelt. Walking off the long drive sounded good to her; no, her teen wasn't interested.
"I didn't know this was here!" she exclaimed as we followed one of my favorite paths downstream, enjoying both homes and river as we leaned into a welcome, strong wind that suddenly swept upstream, out of nowhere! Unpredictable continues to the the name of the game. Sharp gusts turned the undersides of cottonwood and maple leaves. A few days before we were roasting. Tonight was absolutely divine.
This time of year highly successful and attractive, "noxious" purple loosestrife lines waterways like a Monet landscape. As we came to the first lake a crashing stopped me, ever curious. A raccoon mask and tail went flying through the bushes. Although I know raccoons live everywhere, I'd not seen one in many moons. This one had a mission. Never figured out who was chasing who.
Larry's roses were in spectacular bloom. Sue couldn't get over them, "My mother would love this!" Lucky me, I enjoy them every walk! We sat in "my secret hideaway" and talked. "This is wonderful!" Sue repeated, overjoyed to be out of car, enjoying cool weather. "I often sit and read here", I rambled, "at least I did until The Move. I'd like a backyard like this." Great to share a special spot with a good buddy. "Think of me hanging out here when you want to cool off."
When we got home, Sue ordered pizza for her son. "He doesn't eat vegetables", she reminded me as I offered fresh corn and tomatoes, "but I do!" We did.
The last day of July, following a brief evening rain and an almost chilly night, it was cool enough for a day time stroll! My walks have been practically nocturnal all summer! All sorts of butterflies flitted and dragonflies cruised. Relatively quiet, non flashy hummers (hummingbirds)--probably female--chased then sat in bushy willow. I love last year's giant mullein stalks and their other worldly silhouettes. A sparrow with a "stick pin" dot on its breast sang from an striking mullein head. New mullein must not come up until midsummer. Sunflowers gone wild are blooming! The bright red slash of color in one tree turned out to be a finch--which one I'm not sure, the tomato red one, not the cherry red or purplish one. Yellow warblers sang, hidden in cottonwood leaves. A jogger passed with a cell phone. Several times I've noticed huge assemblies of ducks, 20 or 25. Family reunions or what? Already ducks have gone into eclipse, looking monotone and unisex to non ducks. I've also seen brand new ducklings, perhaps second broods. Watched a parent robin feed a huge kid, bigger than itself, a large worm.
The Friday night after Sue and I walked, I was back, only the evening was muggy and hot. Still, better than enduring another moment of "Moulin Rouge". I'd left my friends in the theater after about a half hour. After locking my $5 bicycle, I looked up and saw a black cat watching. Max (his tag said) came over. I lay back on the grass as Max circled clockwise, claiming me as his own. I enjoy cats when they're crazed with friendliness. Although it was light, through the trees a half moon shown, startling me with its beauty. As if that wasn't enough, an osprey landed in the same line of sight. Just as suddenly as it arose, Max's feline interest drifted, freeing me to walk on. At the end of the line I soaked my feet in the not very cold river. Tiny little water critters sat all over my feet. Without glasses, I was clue less. Minute minnows swam by in schools.
As I looked up at a couple walking by my eyes caught the profile of a buck downstream, rather like me, standing in the water. His antlers glowed with evening sun. It was breath taking! He stood a little longer, then walked back across the river to the island. It's a low water year. Several years ago I might have seen a deer swim across this section of the river. Do not recall for certain. As I left, the couple was still watching the sunset. About then I wondered where my keys could be! Ah, bet they're in the grass where the cat circled. They were.
Enjoying last long summer evenings is a treat, on my own or sweetened by friendship.

Greenbelt, fall '99

Boise River, fall '99 - Click for full size image

On The Greenbelt Achives - click on year
2001 - Jan - moon slipping thru fog; Feb- sun drops; Mar- snakes & walkers; Apr - bliss; June - summer snow
2000 - Feb - gray; March - Moon of new leaves; Apr - Sprung!; May - Moon of new ducks; June- Moon of small owls;
Jun-Jul - Moon of forgotten socks; Oct - Moon of falling leaves
1999 - September - Winds of change; November - Moon of listening to leaves

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