Overlooking the lake, I sit sheltered under the veranda roof. Chirping birds fill my ears at the same time as does Supertramp, and I watch the reflection of the trees bouncing up to me off the rippling water. The tranquil, vacant wharf floats soaked with rain and I can hear a woodpecker chipping into a nearby tree. Looking up, I can see it gripping upside down the branches of a slender little deciduous, its white-striped black head shimmying up a slim limb.
A new roommate at this new place of mine shares the name of the ex-girlfriend with whom I used to live, and even from outside I can hear her remark incredulously that it is almost October. Reflecting on her disbelief, I note that I too can hardly believe it: it is so warm out and, though it rains no longer, all things outside rest wet, the moisture held so well by the mosses, lichen, liverworts, grasses.
Some small form of waterfowl floats across the surface of the lake, which mirrors the argentine-cloud sky. I cannot yet tell what species of waterfowl; its shape resembles that of a loon, but it is clearly too small.
Woods surround the lake, including numerous old growth Douglas-firs. The sun begins to shine and I feel sure that I should stay put: I have reading to do; I am back in school and constantly working. Yet, how often does one live in the woods on a lake? This is my first time living in such a locale and I feel inclined to relinquish a great many of the pursuits that now detract from the time I have to wander, to swim, to enjoy, and to explore.
What am I doing here typing on my computer? Do I hope to convince myself with the elegance of my phrasing that words could somehow ever be as beautiful as life uninterpreted?
Sunday, September 26, 2010
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