On the Yahara

"At sunrise, the pure clear sound of the meadowlark. An hour later, some notes, few and simple, yet delicious and perfect, from the bush – sparrow – towards noon the reedy trill of the robin." – Whitman, from Specimen Days










6/1


Late afternoon hours, summer sky on us, the city moves into its parks, filling in the quiet spots under the monument oaks.  Children, hand by small hand, lurch at the span between the red monkey bars and gasp out when they lose grip and mother is there for soft landing on the bark.  Green slide a long line of legs and rising arms as a basketball bounces in the near distance, the chain link notifies success.  As we walk along the narrow trail that skirts Lake Monona, the creatures of the shores dash off or, as with the watchful mallards, hug close to their chosen patch of grass as easy lookout for ducklings.  They barely move their heads; sun washes over the emerald fluorescence of the male's head as mother coordinates warmth and feeding.  We stand briefly at the horseshoe pit, still crusty from winter, unused yet, and toss a bright blue ball to the rods and one skips off the tip and arcs directly in the shaded water.  It rotates slowly to the crossing waves, a small planet. A lime green kayak in the distance slips across horizon line as if planted there in a painting.