Coming downstairs into the kitchen and opening the back door onto the floating deck. Cool river air seeps in through the screen door first thing. Noticing the flow of the river and how that changes every day. A tap. A stream. A languid pool.
Of course, there’s no escaping the ever present hum from the traffic pushing towards the Alex Fraser Bridge, a deep rumble, a constant whiz, air through a wind instrument, every so often the sustained roar of a big truck rising above the steadiness, a more consistent note.
This morning, three Canada Geese flew eastward. A Blue Heron, barely visible in the shadows, sat perched near the neighbor’s deck last night. I remembered it from last summer. Was it the same one?
Late yesterday afternoon, I watched a massive eagle, plucking its way in the shallow waters of the shoreline across Annacis Channel. I watched him through the scope from the second floor and he spent the longest time standing in those shallow waters, occasionally dipping his hooked, yellow beak into the murky water, bug hunting I suppose. From a distance a geometric pattern wove the dark feathers on his body together and his thick legs, feathered and strong, held his body like a cup. His eyes beady, intense, all seeing.
Later on, he was joined by two smaller eagles and they began to dive bomb into the middle of the river, swooping in a triangle, up and down, gliding, trying again, catching nothing that I could see but converging like synchronized swimmers putting on a show. My camera lense isn’t good enough to capture them from this distance.
Back on the deck, the spiders are spinning their webs off the Adirondack chairs and I want to remove them. I want to sit out there, but so far, I haven’t the heart to destroy all their work, rip apart their delicate homes. Their days are numbered however. I want to sit out there first thing, coffee in hand.
Every once in a while, I’ll hear a big splash, and look up to catch water twisting and then the rippled circles on the river’s surface. Sturgeon? Salmon? I’m surprised that fish can live in there. It’s easy to pretend the splash is more sinister. What was that?
The river turns glassy and golden-green at night. Its flow slows as the clock ticks off hours on these long summer days.
In the morning, there are dew drops on the fanned strawberry leaves shading roots in the pot tight around their base.
Once Norman, the cat, has gobbled down his breakfast, he sits at the door waiting to be let out. Lately, I’ve been keeping him in. I saw a documentary on the disappearance of song birds and I know, if I stay strong, he’ll eventually give up, go upstairs and lay down and be quiet. In the notes, it clearly says, “there’s no need for him to go outside.” I say, it’s not for him. It’s for me. Peace.
Small things to be noticed at the beginning of a day have a way of becoming rituals in the long run.