Puddle Resident – Photo: L. Weikel

Swamp Bucket

Camouflage in the Swamp Bucket – Photo: L. Weikel

I walk past this little pond every time I do my ‘walk-about,’ which is the longer version of my more frequent ‘walk-around.’ The walk-about is almost, but not quite, twice as long as my walk-around and it contains a hill of a not insignificant grade. (If you haven’t walked it in a while, it can kick your behind.) The last handful of times I’ve walked past this marshy little swamp bucket, though, I’ve felt a compulsion to stop and just take in the entire milieu. Something was there; I could feel it.

The feeling literally stopped me in my tracks. Something was present. There was some sort of creature waiting for me, either hiding in the tall native grasses surrounding the pool of water or poised on the edge, in the mud, or swimming in the water itself. In order to seize upon the element of surprise, the last few times I came upon it, I consciously slowed my pace and distracted Spartacus so he was actually walking along the other side of the road.

Nope. In spite of my spidey-sense urging me to pay attention, not even a frog hopped into the water, which was surprising. At least three or four frogs managed to screech in surprise and plop into the water all along the rest of my circuit, including right outside our front door. That’s three or four per pool of creek water. Even a few puddles are charging rent now; the recent rains have produced a bumper crop of frogs.

Pay Dirt

Aah. But today my patience was rewarded.

Yes, I did still sense I might catch a creature unawares if I were stealthy enough, but what was the use? With that attitude, I almost missed it. But something tickled my brain and told me to stop once again; to drink in the entire ecosystem.

There she waits – Photo: L. Weikel

Wow. Well, the puzzle is solved. No wonder there are no frogs jumping into this particular pond. No wonder indeed.

Do you see her?

Of course, I have no idea whether she’s a she or a he, but I’m choosing to assign her my own gender, if for no other reason than I admire her skills of camouflage and stealth, her uncanny patience. The depth of instinct she embodies is profound and a little bit unnerving.

On some level, though, I’ve been sensing her presence. Finally laying eyes on her feels cool. And intimate.

And beyond that? An encouragement to trust my instincts. To know that when I sense something, I need to respect myself enough to trust that inner knowing. While I may not be able to put my finger on it right away, if I follow up and pay attention, who knows what I might discover?

(T-75)