February 25, 2021

Yellow and gray dawn. Golden crocus in the lawn. Sitting on my porch yesterday, I noticed the pool net leaning against the shed. In direct light, the long handle of the net was dull blue, but its reflection in the water was blazing cobalt, like the blade of a movie light saber. I sat pondering how the reflection of a thing could be brighter than the thing itself. 

Went yesterday to Wells Fargo to talk with a Mr P about my accounts. He was quite a beautiful man, in that dark Indian way I have always liked, and I was calculating (not very seriously) the possibility of a liaison, when conversation revealed that he was thirty and his father “almost” as old as I. Well, there that goes. Very talkative and confiding he was, and I learned a great deal about his past lives in various investment capacities.  He lamented that the pandemic kept him out of the office and on the golf green, whereby his side had become sore with too much swinging. You can’t see smiles under masks, but I assume he smiled as he said, “I know, that’s a very First World complaint.” 

As I walked to my appointment with Mr P, Sweetboi and Denise flew overhead, looking magnificent. There was a third hawk, too. Does Sweetboi have a rival? A harem? An old college buddy couch-surfing in their tree? One or the other of them would fly between the sun and my house, leaving the dark, fleeing shadow of a bird of prey across the front.

Started for the first time at the Rice Pinnacle trailhead, a further labyrinth of trails leading into quite beautiful forests, generally older than those around bent Creek. Too many bikes. Part of it is actually paved deep into the woods. The prize of the morning was a pair of pileated woodpeckers, one exploring the biggest trees, the other screaming from somewhere deeper in the forest. Was barked at by a dog wearing a blue jacket. When he was finished barking he went and sat in the creek, grinning from ear to ear. 

Watched, and heard, the frogs mating in quiet pools of bent Creek. The pools bubbled with them. I felt like a voyeur. For the most part, small black males were riding the backs of big pink females. I assumed by appearance they were wood frogs, though wood frogs don’t normally lay in permanent streams. A few bullfrogs among them, but they didn’t seem to be mating.

Before I came upstairs, Sweetboi and Denise sat on the same limb, looking down upon my kitchen window.