hydrologicale equivalence for silly daydreame in toto
This is a frame from last month when we went for a Sunday afternoon walk in the foothills above the city, before the writing on the wall became clearer about such forays. At first these strolls were fine, we’d hardly see anyone. When we did, those fellow shy flower-sniffers practiced mutual social distancing, comic encounters but a certain shared camaraderie ensued wherein all conscientious parties gladly resorted to sideways shuffling off narrow paths into thickety salal, bracken fern and Oregon grape, sometimes precarious climbing over fallen logs or stumps was necessary in order to let one another pass with suitably wide spacing. Far too soon did it become readily apparent such conscientiousness would not be the norm, within the span of a week or two, careless people commenced streaming from the woodwork like termites, blundering up and down the hillsides with abandon, exchanging niceties at breathtakingly clueless range, as though a big, fat summer holiday had arrived early for us all. We were taking our own liberties by virtue of just being there, I suppose. Hindsight says how naive I was despite taking the pandemic deadly serious but perhaps it was still a complicated denial.
Many of our public wildlands have long since been closed though there has been no shortage of scofflaws who delight in twisting the letter or spirit of the law to suit themselves in the pursuit of personal freedom, pray Sasquatch doesn’t corner ’em up a sappy old growth giant. Now it looks like the shelter-in-place order will possibly, just very experimentally be dialed back sometime next month but I won’t venture hazarding any sort of guess what that means for day-to-day living. The boys will continue to homestudy, no matter what, as our school district has no plans to reopen classrooms before fall semester.
This was moss on the north side of a tree, lingering remnants of springtime foothill snow limited to shadows. Someone didn’t turn the faucet tight enough, drip-drops from moss-draped branches above pitter-pattered woodpecker-like holes into the crust below, the vertical texture reminded me of a waterfall and the snow on the ground was like the frothing torrent at the bottom of that silky cascade, carrying away rocks and logs. Can you see it? Everything always seems at least marginally interesting in my catalog because it’s essentially a light-box, so that I’m never quite sure if I’m making shapes in the clouds.
The Arboretum has been quieter than usual after the city cordoned off designated parking areas at the largest parks across town, in an effort to limit crowds. The boys and I’ve continued our walks there, they like to stop at the big meadow to footrace awhile. Oliver Fern needs it bad to burn off his usual abundance of excess energy. In the interest of warding off sameness, we’ve resorted to occasional neighborhood strolls through the Central District to points south, including Leschi, Judkins Park and Mount Baker. On Sunday, that walk revealed a fascinating, revolving cast of characters grilling and gardening in tiny front yards. We even made the acquaintance of Adam’s math teacher in a block near Garfield High School, he was across the street with his dogs and salutations were shouted across the street at each other.