At the lake this morning, three mergansers were haunting the shore. They were muttering. Are they the ones from last week, grown, I wondered. John took their photograph. But then, as I was finishing my swim, along came the mother with her 9 young (I think she had a dozen last week), all of them whirling around her as she swam sedately between me and the shore. All of them whirling, learning to feed on the insects and tiny fish in the very shallow water where it meets the sand. Not far away, a raven called, its voice bell-like (my dear friend Charles Lillard called it a “black sanctus”). What do you know about the missing 3 ducklings, I asked. No reply.
On these hot days, I take water to vines, to roses, to the new cabbages in the bed I call “Long Eye”. On Sunday, I opened the garden shed door and startled a small covey of young grouse, not quite old enough to fly but they glided through the salal to a place of safety, their mother calling in agitation from the trail. On one fencepost of the garden, a raven had settled to watch. 1,,2, 3, 4. How many will be left next week? The week after?
Around the garden gate, the honeysuckle is in full bloom, bees humming, a thicket of sweetness. The unnamed apricot roses find their own way through. And just to one side, the deep pink moss roses have covered the fence.
How do I measure my swim? 40 minutes, mergansers, little trout, light settling in the shallows, the sky turning over and over, a raven, two kingfishers. How do I measure my life?
In the night, the loons down on Sakinaw Lake were hysterical. Something, something, something. I was waiting for the strawberry moon. I was in anguish, thinking of all the harm I’ve done. I almost went downstairs for a parting glass of seaweedy Bowmore but instead, I held my husband’s hand and cried.
So fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be to you all
...Theresa Kishkan 