I walk towards the water, longing for a peace
of mind, to wear off the jitters of caffeine.
My thoughts and heart race downhill, stumbling
as feet tread around fresh clumps of puddles.
The wetland is at low tide and high spring,
green fingers prying out of the muddy bank.
Awkwardly pushed from show, an old plank remains askew,
a lonely pier I long to reach out to and explore.
The passing world hums back to life, echoing
the wild haze of too many cups of coffee.
Across the way, onto a high bare branch, a bird finally alights.
It’s mohawk stands straight as a hat, sitting proud and aloof.
The belted kingfisher sits happily above the water,
eyeing it’s abundant home with prudence.
Good fortune holds it still to capture the moment
before I switch to my bird call app before it decides
to return to its nesting ground.
With much chatter and enthusiasm, the kingfisher speeds away,
leaving me on my own branch of a bench lost in thought.
Why do I bother to return here, why do I persist walking the same mile path
down a hill, towards creek and river, back to this hidden wetland?
The answer lies in the Kingfisher’s chatter, the distant memory of a beaver,
lost in the memory of these muddy banks.
It’s about a maddening hope that despite how cruel and spiteful the world turns
there is some good, something worth protecting
for myself and future generations.
So that one day there will be other wandering souls hoping to find
the glimpse of a hatted bird, or the toowee of a call that echos
deep into their souls years after they return from the wild.