Water Lilies Are Grossly Misunderstood

Fall in New England is inspiring.  Stray cats run across driveways as cars creep along newly cold pavement.  Leaves begin to die and change color--one last hurrah in a world where they're undervalued.  Wood and pellet stoves ignite and spew odorous fumes filled with Cedar and Pine into the neighborhood.  The air moves about with a new chill and squirrels scurry with a sense of impending sleep.  Do not try to catch a squirrel during his or her quest for nuts.  I recently attempted to run about the yard and gather as many acorns as I could.  My intention was to leave the nuts in a pile, a kind of gesture of aide and good will; however, my actions were met with screams from my furry friends, and I quickly disbanded the hunt.  

I found a pond in New England and launched my kayak into its undisturbed water.  I paddled against the wind, a task reserved for the determined.  I reached one end of the pond and ventured upon fields of lily pads.  I looked down into the water and little circles of dead peat swirled about the pads.  The tiny circles of decayed leaves looked like stars, an infinite amount, against the blackness of the cold water.  All of the lily pads seemed to be connected by miles of tubes, arms, and weeds.  The entire pond must have been one gigantic lily pad ecosystem, a few million leaves rose to the top to absorb sun, bugs, and air.  A flowering lily pad is grossly misunderstood.  Among the silence there rose an orchestra of crickets, birds, and little splashes of water.  A truck downshifted on a near-by highway, and was I annoyed that humans could interrupt such beauty.  The flowers that rested on top of the lily pad were white, dotted with tiny black insects, and existed among the frenzy of a world hidden behind a narrow barrier of trees.  I rested my paddle on the kayak and the pads acted as an natural brake.  My boat was swallowed among the peace of these floating green plants.  They asked me to stay, prohibited my boat from leaving, and shared the power of silently existing.  A gust of wind came along and gently pushed my kayak down stream.  The boat slowly glided on top of the field of pads.  I was a concert goer, the performers were singing their praises, and the lily pads carried me above their heads-a kind-of gentle crowd surfing.  

Yellow Jackets buzzed me in teams of four or five.  Do they nest in the lilies?  I think they do.  I'm sure somebody will contend the statement that Yellow Jackets nest among with water plants, but in the middle of the field of lilies I realized we know very little about our plant and animal friends.  "Experts" post pictures at the pond's entrance: "You might find these little creatures on your travels."  The pond's ecosystem was reduced to four creatures, all of whom I did not encounter, but I'm sure I didn't see them as a result of their careful watch of me.  I noticed a dozen wooden bird houses that dotted the pond's perimeter.  The houses were beyond fields of lilies, and I wondered how and when a human managed to drudge through the muck to the perfect spot.  My venture into the lily ecosystem reminds me of a friend's words.  A young and knavish sprite from the wood addresses mortals:

If we shadows have offended, 

Think but this, and all is mended, 

That you have slumber'd here

While these visions did appear.

And this weak and idle theme, 

No more yielding but a dream,

Gentles, do not reprehend:

If you pardon, we will mend.

And, as I am an honest Puck,

If we have unearned luck

Now to'scape the serpent's tongue, 

We will make amends ere long;

Else the Puck a liar call.

So, goodnight unto you all.

Give me your hands, if we be friends,

And Robin shall restore amends.

Where The Heart Is

There is a road close by that time forgot.  A family passes through the archaic wooden home.  Children take the place of their parents and then grandchildren push them away even further.  The neglected barn begins to invite ivy, dandelions, and critters.  A skunk finds residence and the old horse poop becomes a permanent fixture.  The horse has been dead for quite some time, but his poop lasts, leaves a legacy, marks what the body cannot: infinity.  Plants will grow on the mound of poop, and the horse will once again prove that only he can transcend time.  On this road that time has forgotten, a bridge is touted for its historical significance.  There isn't enough money to fix it, though, and it begins the disintegration like many other things that time has forgotten.  An old brownstone archway marks the entrance to this road.  Contemporary politicians mark the archway with a yellow iron gate--their attempt at pointing out something old that should not be touched.  High school students get lost on the road, find the river below it, and fasten the rope swing to a Red Wood along its bank.  The trees hide the secrets, the river washes away impurity, and the students pass down the secret to the next group.  Time has forgotten the family that lives in the old wooden house at the road's end.  On the other side of the river, there is the aunt.  She has a larger home.  The river, fast moving with its ability to cut and drown, separates the disappointed from the home that time has forgotten.  Builders survey the road that time has forgotten, and they leave just a quickly as the thought of gold appeared.