RipRap

Mendon Ponds

When I first arrive at Mendon Ponds on Saturday afternoon, the sky is clear blue and the sun shoots into every crevis of the landscape. The grasses are lit, the sky is lapis, and thin skin of ice on the pond is backing away from the shore.

I find my way to the green trail for horses that skirts the edge of the pond. The trail is a bit muddy here and there and pair of horses pass me and leave fresh imprints even in the harder sections of the path.

The view from the trail is about eye level with the pond, looking over the tops of cat tails. Off in the woods I hear a Pilleated woodpecker drilling away, and calling now and then. I spot a king fisher circling the pond and wonder what the king fisher does this early in the season with a layer of ice on the water.

The people on the horses and a few other hikers seem very intent on chatter, which has me looking to go off trail so I climb the hill to the east of the pond to get above them and any others that might follow.
In the grass above there is a group of chickadees that seem to take little notice of me, even as I approach.

I head deeper into the woods and cut up following deer trails. These are easy to spot because all of the leaves are matted down from the snow but the more recent deer have ruffed up the leaves, and have left scat here and there.

It feels good to be more off on my own. The trees are still and silent, but I can hear birds everywhere. Most noisy are the geese that are landing in the ice free sections of the pond or that are flying over on their way North. I get to the top of the ridge that circles the pond and walk along the rim. Now and then I stop and just gaze out, letting the mind settle into a natural quiet. I can feel myself melt into the surrounding area and settle down into the gullies and amongst the grasses in the warm sun.

 

 

Interlakin'

wind down through finger lakes

skate the north rim of Conesus

rattle through old little towns

then past broken

houses and rough fields

lined with trees that hold

hunting

  blinds

where drunk each year

somebody shoots

wild knocking out glass

 

open roofed auto

the slap of the flapping nylon

blue straps holding the seventeen

foot fiberglass flat water kayak

 

pull onto the dirt road where

a sign says “boat launch”

and tires find troughs

and pot holes

 

slow to a crawl

get down close to

water

that ripples only

when the red bow slides

 

gleaming into empty Hemlock lake

and the black graphite paddle

grips on the back-stroke

the waist rotates

two hundred pounds with

barely a twist

 

silent

 

only stone cliffs

small conifers

 echoes of ducks

and paddle drip ringlets

 on surface

of the morning sky

Torn Down Canandaigua

The muddy ruts of the cornfield already cut, mashed and ploughed under, with occasional stalks amputated at the knee.

An old wreck of a house (now a shack) with a sag-gut front porch and the roof about to collapse. All shades of grey in the patched tar-shingle walls falling into the crumbling morning.

Rounding the bend, sun tumbles through fall leaves of maples turning into mid-october north-east-colors and lands on tufts of scrub-grass in a pasture with black&white/brown&white cows lounging and lazy. One stands hunched, muscles taut, pissing gallons into the golden universe.

Chimney Bluffs (from Lake Hymns)

 

 

Spires

Piles of sand

stacked layers stand in isolation

lone

whispering

cut from the cliff-side

 

fourteen thousand year old silt

stones, shells, clumped where receding glaciers

glass like slabs, slow as age

sculpted these shores

dumped heaves of scrap

then melted and fed these lakes

with full teats

 

wind, a tide

in it’s own right

warmed and cooled turbulence

sweeps down across

soft

Ontario

and in throws

bites

the cleft of this shore

while

Ontario

laps quietly

Enter (from Lake Hymns)

(in silence)
welcome

glide          weightless
on glass

pass through these waters

moments
.......

Lilac Festival

Each year our family makes a dinner date at the liilac festival. The festival is held in Highland Park on the side of a hill. The Lilac bushes create a wonderful atmosphere where families eat picnics and play tag and hide-and-go-seek. Teenagers wander in groups playing frisbee, vendors sell fried dough and hot dogs and cotton candy. I hear Neil Young in the beck of my head "Oh to live on sugar mountain...".

Lisa and I look at our kids now, how they have grown up over the years. Yet we find ourselves playing freeze-tag with  our three teens, and stuffing gobs of cotton candy into our mouths. The sun is warm and the sky is bright blue. We end up lying in a pile of limbs and tossled hair, staring up at the sky. Her hand reaches over to grab mine and she does not need to say it. Does it get any better?

Irondequoit Paddle (Part 1)

For the first time this year I head out in the kayak. It’s a red fiberglass seventeen foot sea kayak. A “Labrador Sea” made by Swift. I bought it at the end of the season the year before last getting 25% off because it was a demo model.

I slide into the seat, steadying the craft with the paddle bridging from the back of the seat to the dock. Immediately I can feel my weight buoyed by the bottom of the kayak and the water of the bay.

Dipping the paddle in I give it a pull. Muscle memory kicks in and in moments I am gliding past reeds on the flat part of Irondequoit Bay, heading up stream towards the mouth of the creek rather than out into the main part of the bay.

 

red-winged-blackbird

swoop-cuts across my bow

too close to her nest

 

The morning is warm and it doesn’t take long to break a sweat but there is a breeze that cools you off if you stay out in the open. The sounds of traffic become more distant as I get out of sight of the dock and the Empire Boulevard bridge. I work my way across the broad flats and into one of the channels between the reeds. I pick the west branch which gives me a little more time in the marsh before heading southward and up into the main part of the creek that looses the marsh feel and becomes more wooded and hilly.

 

cat-tails rustle

at the back end of the cove

two swans

Drizzle

All week the sun has warmed me through the moon roof as I drove to work each morning.  Today, Saturday I wake to gray sky and sloshing grass. I walk around the house with my coffee, drinking from under my hood.

 

little bits

float in gutter trickle

April rain

Drifting

Walking along the edge of the lake searching for drift wood in the cold wind. Patches of wet sand interrupt the ice crusting the shore. We find a few pieces worth bringing home and several that are too large to drag back.

winter morning,    pale in the grey light            

bits of beach glass

As we move down the beach I am looking up towards the cliffs where the saplings and brambles rule. A few berries left by the birds. I find a twisted piece of iron. Railing, bent textured rust.

as always, she finds what escapes me                        

depths and layers

I-Ching Afternoon

So cold the breath rises as steam. A sunny afternoon. The crunch and squeak of the snow under boot heels is the only sound as I walk. The tall grass is bent over in clumps under the weight of the snow. The blue sky and bright sun make it seem crisp rather than the dull bone chill of a gray day. Lost in my thoughts I am startled by two flits of wing. A pair of cardinals pull up in the trees of to my right. Then take notice of me and vanish back into the woods.

ice puddle

lined with pockets of air

casting the trigram “Heaven”