This visit, there were misty reflections and wet grasses to reward me.
|Something down below is bubbling, making circles on the water.|
|Common rush seed head, soaking wet.|
|Tule and grasses and their angled reflections.|
|Just wet grass, dry on the inside, wet outside.|
Wet winter grasses, in ditches, crispy and cold; so tempting! Oh, to be a kid again, in rubber boots and a wool jacket that Mom would hang over the wood stove to drip dry when I came home!
I've been remembering a cold winter afternoon, years and years ago, when I was a kid in school in White Rock. My brother and I took a "shortcut" home from school. (These shortcuts usually took much longer than the usual roads, of course.) Our route involved walking down the ditch, and through a culvert under the road. The ditch was full of dead grass, pale yellow-brown, glittering with frost in the shadows, dripping wet where the winter sun had reached it; it rustled icily as we passed through. There was a smell of soggy mud, with overtones of rotting hay. So much more inspiring than the boring sidewalks and picket fences of the street!
|Zooming in on those dead grasses.|
|York Road. I do love these country roads!|