Tuesday, July 5, 2011
#M1 - Western Grebe
Foothold slats, tall tree, two planks; one knotty rope and the I-pod blasting. My legs tremble in time with the beat. Short guy films; carrot top yells; I swing, squeal, fly, and sink through reflections...deep. The water is cold, the way I like it. It is green, the way I like it. It is silk and vibrations and a welcoming hum. Small fish brush my white legs and my white arms gracefully stroke through lazy mosses. I am slow to leave it, rising to the surface gasping and spitting in the inhospitable air and loud music and cheers; making the grudging change from solitude to togetherness. I slowly revolve in this wet dimple between the swells of alfalfa hills and come face to face with a Western Grebe. The Grebe eyes me and mine irritably and I make chuckle bubbles and he dives. Oh he dives. And I follow. I can't follow far, but suspended I watch him loop and glide out of sight into the furthest, most inscrutable green. And I am left to do my own gliding into the shallowest, churning murk to grab one warm hand and clamber out of the silk and into gravel and noise and dust. I take with me only my quickly quieting rhythmic huffs of clean, green breath. There are claps on my back and the next swinger takes the plunge. Short guy shows me the video and his admiration and I smile but think that the best part is what you can't see for all the ripples.