A broken tulip

Monarch butterflies flit among the golden rod and then trip their way out across the lake in ditsy flight patterns.

The weave in and out and out and in

                                                on their way to Mexico and beyond.

I blow a kiss to each one that takes off. Safari njema, you brave little creatures. And I marvel at the many forms strength takes.

Birds fly low across the water, too interested in fish to bother the flaky pilgrims.

One heron near the shore dives to search

….

….

and I hold my breath with her

…

…

exhale gratefully when she surfaces, shakes her slender neck, then dives gracefully again.

I went to two cathedrals of different denominations this weekend; both were shut. I laugh because I know God’s inviting me to sit by the lake. I think God can see how tired my face is, and that is why he is so gentle with me today.

A man and a dog climb the steep cliff and appear, panting, close to my elbow. On the trails before I slipped off to my secluded spot, I saw many people. It dawned on me that they were all men, except for three women: one never left her car, and two were running with husbands.

I sigh, because I know I’m in a “potentially threatening situation” by sitting in Oshawa’s bush at dawn, alone. And because women miss so many sunsets and sunrises, thinking about safety.

An orange-and-black fuzzy caterpillar surprises me, moving his fat little body fast across the grass. (I think they tell us not to touch fuzzy caterpillars because otherwise we would cuddle each tickly one.) I watch his progress, curious.

The little fellow is headed straight for the cliff edge

                                                he goes over

                                                I crawl carefully to the edge to watch

                                                He clings, vertical, confused

                                                then slowly turns his colourful body back into the horizontal world.

We both breathe a little easier.