Blue Heron in the Shallows
by Tim Wright
Late October
northern Appalachian slope
the lakes clawed long
by old ice.
You can feel winter
just beyond
the colors of the fall.
It is the delta of change
colder than the mercury shows
from autumn advancing
to the grim months ahead
that pierces the chill
below skin surface.
Under looming trees
the surface of the silent backwater
is like a pane of glass.
Not a ripple not a stir
nor floating leaf
just liquid ice to be.
And then you see him,
stark statue
in the edge shallows
like wrought tractor iron in sculpture.
The arching neck
lean squared head
his beak a chiseled spear
frozen in the food hunt
on stanchion legs
in the frigid pool
where it seems no prey could move.
But he is great and grey.
This is not his first winter –
his black bead eye
on watch for weather too.
The toughness of his past
will see him through
if he can grit out another cycle
of stoic sentinel duty.
His will immutable, unrelaxed
Until the flaming yellow beech leaves
the flaring translucent
maple reds and salmons
and gnarling brown oak leaves
hanging on to the end,
have all gone as before.
And as before
this heron’s eye
in time will look again upon
the fat of summer.
The food rich warmth
of eddying creeks
between
the banked green softly towering
walls of trees.
To rise on far spread wings
on long lift and zephyred glide
up the wine-red corridor of the stream
on the dazzling stretching rays
of the evening summer sun.
Heaven Somewhere
Just Over the Rainbow
by Sue Ellis
Thank thee oh Lord
For this life
You've given to us
Loved ones so dear
We thank thee
For the memories of yesterday
Heaven somewhere
Just over the rainbow
Lord we know one must go
One will stay
Have faith believe
In a place
We call heaven
Will all meet again one day
Heaven somewhere just over the rainbow
For now memories
Will always live in my heart
Loved ones
Will meet again
Somewhere just over the rainbow |
Dear Life in the Finger Lakes,
I'm writing this letter to see if there are others out there who feel the same as I do. I lost my husband of 30 years on July 29, 2005 to cancer. It seems like it has been a long, lonely road to walk every day. My husband was 72 years old. No one knows what it is like to lose a loved one until it happens to you and so if you know of someone who has lost a loved one call on them, write them a letter, or stop in and visit them. We all need a friend. Wouldn't you want them to think of you in a time like this?
Sue Ellis |
by Patricia Soanes Seward
How do the birds rise up
From Autumn fields to move
Against the wind
In perfect waves of flight?
They never seem to touch,
But turn and dip and glide
In dreamlike dance.
Those of us who stumble
On our own feet,
Choke on our own words
And feel dreams slip
Between our fingers,
Can only move
Against the wind
And wonder.
The Sounds of Seneca
by Eva Maria Allen Baldauf
Never take me away from the sounds of the waves lapping on the shores of Seneca. The cool morning, south breeze blowing in my window,
the sun sparkling on the water and reflecting in my mirror. The crows caw their morning hello in the trees and then stroll along the beach looking for food.
Then the early morning seagull claiming his spot on the dock, and always the phoebe with their wake-up song along with all the other song birds perched in the box elder tree.
The droll sound of a motor from a fisherman's boat at dawn, the children at play on the beach before breakfast, the endless supply of stones to skip and throw, the early morning dive and splash off the dock.
Seneca – ever cool and green, I call it "Seneca Green." Sometimes clear and sky blue, the strong north winds with the white caps and waves pounding the shore like the ocean surf, often grey predicting the weather change, either for storms or clearing skies. The early morning fog covering the water from shore to shore, then finally lifting to reveal the rest of the world.
Seneca – often called the "Lady Vixen," wild and strong one day, calm and still like a mirror the next. South wind today! Cold water for swimming. North winds bring the warmer water for swimming.
Saturday and Sunday bring the weekend boaters out. The parade of passing yachts and cruisers seem endless. The white sails dotting the lake from north to south, fishing boats, water skiers, noisy ski-dos, sun surfers, bow & arrow fishermen, canoes and rowboats.
The the quiet of September, the most beautiful sound of quiet. God has truly blessed our Seneca land. Never take me away from the Sounds of Seneca.
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Dear Sir,
My wife Maria died in May 2005, and in the process of examing her personal papers and things I came across this lovely writing of hers dated July 1993.
For lovers of the Finger Lakes I think this piece will find many friends who experience the same simple treasures. The sounds of the lakes, in this case Seneca Lake.
Maria and I have summered some 55 years together in the family cottage on Fir Tree Point, 7 miles north of Watkins Glen on the west side.
Lee L. Baldauf
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