Güd wrtr

Because the plane doesn’t leave Toronto
until 6 p.m., I have time for a lazy lie-in,
rising to find the cute red teapot cozied

and waiting (your tea is ready, Sue’s
sweet note says every day of my visit),
and, after a shower, one last walk

in the woods beyond the pond. After
last night’s rain sent more leaves
to join their fallen brethren on the path,

I feel my shoes soften into the damp,
notice reds underfoot streaked with
branch bits, maple leaf yellows dirtied.

But I inhale the petrichor that such
welcomed rain brings, the day-after
smell missed for weeks by growing

things here—unusually dry for fall,
though common in my part of this
continent. A night’s precipitation

makes for lovely walking weather
through these woods, dark and deep,
as I remember hiking here yesterday,

following Sue and Whiskey around
the nearly 500 acres they steward,
Whiskey eager to tree a red squirrel

zipping across the leafy carpet. Today,
alone on the path, I bid au revoir to
the pond where otters hunt and

beavers build. Until we meet again,
I whisper to this place, as magical
to me as Walden was for Thoreau,

a sweet bit of peace I will carry
with me to the land of little rain
I call home.

Turn on the live cams—
it’s Fat Bear Week
in Alaska, and I’m all in,

though, honestly, I don’t care
about the competition—
which bear wins. I just want

to spy online at the ursine
eaters with massive jaws
and paws fishing for salmon

on the Brooks River. And since
I likely won’t get to Katmai
National Park to watch them

them live any time soon—
spots on the railing over the river
being harder to snag than tickets

to a Taylor Swift concert,
according to one reporter—
I’m happy to watch one of three

bear cams running day and night.
Even in black and white, before
the sun rises, there’s a big fella

wading as fish jump like meteors
not far from him—but those salmon
are fast and wily. Still, the biggest

bears obviously have technique,
shagging salmon like pitchers
catching fly balls, gaining weight

like sumo wrestlers. Oh, look—
check out the mama teaching by
example her techniques to

two large cubs. And there’s
a grand buddha-shaped bear
sitting up to his waist in

water, meditating on a hunk
of white flesh between his
jaws. This week I’ll pop in to

spy on the bears, oblivious
to their media star status,
though I am impressed

with their bulk and dedication
to their autumnal task:
Catch fish. Eat fish.

Bulk up for winter. Sleep.
Lumber outside into a
sparkling spring. Start again.

•••

You can see the Brooks River bears on the bear cams here. Scroll down a bit to see the live cams of the bears.

You don’t need a blueprint for
life—though many days you’ve
longed for one. You could use
a map, paths neatly indicated
with brightly blinking arrows—
maybe in glittery pink—this way—
and other signs with black x’s—
not this way.

Would it be so much skin
off God’s nose to provide
a literal sign now & then?
Not a bloody burning bush,
but directional indicators—
exit here when it’s time to leave,
or slippery when wet before
oncoming slopes.

Blueprints are for building things
that stay—you’re on your way,
my dear, mapless, yes, but not
without direction.

(for Louise Bierig)

Before she left Canada,
Louise wanted to swim
in Lake Erie one more time
to help fortify her for
the drive home to Media,
Pennsylvania.

I brought my suit, not
expecting to use it to take
my first dip in in a Great Lake,
but I had lake envy after
watching Louise two days
earlier—her swim was lovely,
the water temperature perfect.

She became an online writing
buddy during times of isolation.
I was her teacher; she has
become mine, reminding me
that all I have to do is
tug on the swimsuit, head for
the beach, drop the towel,
and walk slowly into the vast
liquid stretching to the horizon,
feeling ridges of sand underfoot—
no toe-seeking rocks for stubbing.

If it’s too cold, she says, you can
turn back and walk out. But I
keep going, water reaching knees,
then waist, then shoulders,
warming with every step, my
feet bouncing off the shallow
bottom, and there I am, me
and my new friend, bobbing
and chatting, floating face up,
toes skyward.

I turn ny weightless body
to look back toward the long beach
stretching behind me, then
turn again toward the invisible,
opposite shore of this Great Lake,

which I trust is actually
out there—because Louise
says it is—the place where
she grew up, a land I
cannot see, in a country
we both call home.

(for my Amherst Writers & Artists colleagues)

A dozen writers stand on
the Canadian side, where, I’ve
heard, the best views reside,

and that turns out to be true,
the gigantic froth of Horseshoe
Falls thundering as it straddles

the border—an unbroken curtain
2,500 feet wide draining Lake Erie
into Lake Ontario. And we watch,

transfixed by all that water power,
roughly 6 million cubic feet cascading
over the falls every minute, before

finding tables outdoors where,
some distance from the edge,
the mist finds us, dotting our

pages as we write, smudging
newly inked thoughts. The
undercurrent of rumble

makes it hard to hear each
other, but we read aloud,
as we do, and, when one

of us notices a not-uncommon
phenomenon here, she calls,
Rainbow! No one rushes

the railing for photos, though
we all look up, delighted to see
droplets in the atmosphere

breaking midafternoon
sunlight into seven colors.
Not until everyone has read

do we tourist ourselves
to the railing where hundreds
of souls, many of them speaking

languages other than English,
gawk at what rightly should
be the eighth wonder of the world,

awash in rainbows, showing off
all that magnificence to
the assembled humanity—

not least a gray-haired Californian
with misty sunglasses who has
taken 65 years to get to this

place that is the epitome of
awesome, grinning her fool
face off.

(for my Amherst Writers & Artists colleagues)

Oh, my dear,
whispers the goddess,
what you hold in your
once-slender hand—

fingers now thicker, yes,
the road maps of your life
running into your knuckles,
this hand that has held

thousands of implements
for writing or drawing—
is a reminder: Keep going.
Keep reading. Keep writing.

Keep finding big trees under
which to walk. Take the paths
into the forest that are new
to you, ones that promise

to lead you to surprise.
And when you cannot make
your way into nature, remember
that you are nature. Study

the rocks and pebbles and
shells that you have brought
into your life; hold the essence
of all there is in a glass sphere.

Listen to what it all has to tell
you: The gifts of the world
are yours, always, in this
and beyond, truly—

Amene.

(for Louise Bierig)

I see my first Great Lake
for the first time on the last
day in September, Truth
and Reconciliation Day
in Canada, the same day I
watch Louise wade farfarfar
into the shallows of Lake Erie,
eager for a swim.

This is her lake; she grew up
on the Pennsylvania side,
swimming, sailing, lifeguarding.
I feel a bit of water envy as
she plunges in, bobs like a
blonde buoy in the distance.

I bend over the sandy shore,
look at Canadian rocks,
pick up a few smooth ones
to pocket—pale sandstone
like mini speckled eggs.

I wear the new orange T-shirt,
I bought two days ago on
on Scugog Island, home of
the Mississaugas First Nation:

Every child matters.

I put a hand to my chest,
close my eyes, think about
children ripped from their
homes, their people, beaten
and starved by white people
trying to kill the Indian in them.

They nearly succeeded.

Like the beaver, the otter,
the people have slowly returned.
This day honors the children,
the ones who never came
home, and the ones who did,
forever scarred.

Louise, mother of two sons,
breast strokes slowly back
to shore against a low bank
of clouds shrouding the U.S.
side of the lake. She looks
as though she could swim
to eternity and back
if she wanted,

perhaps with a child in tow,
returning him to his people,
the too-long-gone prodigal
come home at long last.

(for Sue Reynolds)

When Sue suggests, on my first night
at her house, snipping some mojito
mint from the garden for tea, I grin
and wiggle like Whiskey, the big dog
who accompanies her into the dark.
She returns, flicks off the lamp strapped
to her forehead, a handful of fragrance
in hand.

She rinses the leaves, stuffs them in
the sweet red teapot with its matching
zippered jacket for warmth, and lets
it steep, the delicate scent wafting
when she hands me a cuppa
a few minutes later.

I’m in heaven here, a guest
in this house on the pond in this
rural bit of southern Ontario.
And the next night, when Sue asks,
“Mint tea?” I’m all in.

The third night Whiskey and I
go to the herbs, me wielding
the scissors, him along for a sniff.
And on the fourth day I cut
a wicked mass of mint to take
with us to a retreat center
a couple of hours away.

It is a smell I will associate with
this time, this place—late September,
still so warm for these parts,
sitting by the pond writing as
the goldenrod and the purple asters,
soon to disappear with the coming
cold, wave lazily in a sweet breeze.

How simple, I think, how glorious,
this minty bounty. How grateful
am I.

(for Sue and James)

It doesn’t have a name other than
The Pond, its caretakers tell me.

To them, it is not big, but here,
in the great province of Ontario,
there must be thousands of small
ponds and lakes in a place where
rainfall is typically abundant.

It should be falling now,
one of the caretakers says,
adding that they’re in a moment
of drought.

But to this Californian,
coming from the land of little rain,
everything radiates a dozen shades
of green, even as fall’s yellows
and crimsons begin to creep across
the canopy, as leaves release and flutter.

Sitting atop one of the man-made dams,
listening to the stream cascade behind me,
I keep watch for beaver who have done
more than their share of beavering here,
working by night to dam up the openings
that contain the pond.

The caretakers tell me the pond
has risen 4 feet because of the beavers’ work,
and one of the caretakers regularly
has to dismantle part of the avant-garde
assemblage of downed branches that
the builders so industriously construct
so the water can flow merrily down
the stream.

The beavers’ projects are still evident—
the caretakers do not wish to destroy them—
and I imagine the sharp-toothed crew
paddling this pond and others in the dark,
looking for spaces to build because,
after all, this is their work.

Overlooking one of their innovative
sculptures, I pause, amazed, and,
my human sound rippling across the pond,
applaud these creators so committed
to their art.

(for Sue Reynolds and James Dewar,
stewards of the pond)

Sitting atop the small dam
next to the pond, I watch
a squadron of dragonflies
flit like tiny biplanes, coming
to rest in the sun next to me.

The large blue dashers hover
closest to the water, their
four wings fanning the surface,
helicopter-style.

The smaller, rust-colored
autumn meadowhawks alight
for no more than a minute,
efficient hunters said to catch
97% of what they pursue.

Fall is beginning to take hold
of the pond. Most of the insects
of summer, the peskiest ones—
the horse flies, mayflies, black flies—
have fallen; the dragonflies
will soon be gone, too.

But look—just there, next
to me on the weathered
planks—two dashers and
two meadowhawks have
landed, arranging themselves
into a tidy flightline, engines
revving, preparing to take off
again.

The longer I sit, inhaling
the warmth of the day,
the more they show up,
the closer they come—
one on my knee, three
decorating my shoulder
like so many living brooches.

I close my eyes, feel a lacy-
winged being tickling
the knuckles of my left hand,
alive in this moment by this
sweet pond, with nothing to
do but return to the breath,
me and my happily full heart.