Quiet Water, Thundering Pulse

It's very hot. My shirt is made for running, supposedly. It breathes well, is bright lime green but has a very close neck opening, my throat feels constricted.  The feeling emphasizes the heat.

I walk back along the towpath of the old Cumberland/Oxford Canal and I want to get home to write.

Behind me is urban forest, a rail crossing, more woods and bridges across marsh, over dips in the path.  My walking poles make short work of them, supporting me as I push my way over logs, up and down slopes. I step high to keep moving quickly, avoiding roots that seem to jump out to grab my toes and try tossing me face-first into the mouldy earth.

Here on the towpath it's bright, warm. Birds sing off in the trees to my right. Animals move in the tall grass next to the path. I hear rustling, guess the animal as being the size of a small dog, maybe a woodchuck? I don't smell a skunk.

Enough people use this path, with and without bikes that I'm sure animals keep clear and in the cover.

We've not had any real rain, just showers. Jewell Falls more than a mile and a half behind me seemed tired, anemic. The sound two weeks ago was explosive, you could hear it deep in the woods long before you came upon it.

Today its presence was subdued, the water above the bridge (left in the picture shown) was almost milky with the slowness of its flow; previously it had been crystal clear and rushing to plunge.

Still, between the heat and speed of my pace I was quite winded. Sitting by the bridge I felt my pulse wound up to a frenetic clip.

Runners came by, waved as they plunged down the stone stairs beside the falls, across the bridge at their base, turning to vanish into the sun-dappled shadow of the trees.

I pulled out my phone, posted the bridge picture to Facebook, took time to read various blogs, caught up on my email, looked at a spreadsheet I'd structured for the Orchard and suddenly ...

...suddenly ....

... realized how foolish it was to be sitting in such a comfortable place, staring at a phone screen.

I love and appreciate technology, know how to use it. I like how it can enhance my experience and knowledge of life.  Still, it seemed a little silly to be staring at something I could look at anytime I was home.  The scene around me was comfortable and comforting, I was breathing hard for a reason.

I had worked to get there, the feeling was actually quite pleasant.

So the footpath called me back. I knew when it was time to go.

On the towpath I followed a dragonfly. Its body was black as were its wings. Each wing's middle had white stripes and the tips were so light as to be almost translucent.

It became my companion on the towpath for most of my trip back to the car, staying on the bright dirt of the path. I think its vision focussed more on the light part of the scene. I was moving so fast that I began to catch it up.

I felt it was playing with me, almost a game of tag.  I wondered what it could see, what thoughts or images were forming in its head as it flew down the path ahead of me. How did it experience the difference between light and shade? Was it alarmed as the giant in green and orange, clattering with four legs down the path, seemed to chase it?

A few times it sat on the path and I was afraid I would hit it - but it always picked up and flew on.

As we neared the last little bit of forest before the final bridge it suddenly flitted right and into the trees. I was alone again.

For those last steps I tried at accept where the dragonfly had been, tried to fly down the path as it had, tried to feel winds lifting me along, buzzing, almost translucent. Saw the shadow as liquid, different, cooler - the sunlight as airy, richer, warmer.

Counting steps would give you different numbers coming back than going toward.

Maybe I listen best when I just fly.

Portland, Maine