Fuzz Still on the Goldenrod

November 5, 2010.  Friday.

Situation:  A day of doing many trifling things, a 10-minute job, even going at Moi’s suggestion to a financial advisor (Moi had taken her can of loose change to the bank earlier in the day), finally to the grocery store.  At the end of our lane was what looked to me like a dying kitten.   Moi went back to check on it (me worrying that she was going to bring it home), but she described it as making retching sounds, and she was afraid for the health of our animals and her own health to bring it back.  It’s 5:00 by the time I’m able to take Mway for her walk.

State of the Path:  Moi mentioned that yesterday when she was cleaning off the back porch she discovered some large leaves, wondered where they came from, then realized it was from the unknown tree, the tree closet to our porch, which at one time we cut partially down and placed a cow skull on top of.  I look at the tree today, the few leaves still on it almost the size of tobacco leaves.  It grows more or less through an evergreen bush.  Take the side path through the monkey vines and green honeysuckles (their berries almost all gone).  Leaves on the maples almost gone.  Still leaves on some of the oaks.  Did I think the fuzz was gone from the goldenrod?  Wrong about that -- looks like most of it’s still there.  Little yellow flower by the creek still looks like a belated goldenrod.  Don’t see anything that looks like witch hazel.  Walk across the plank, but a little hesitantly – the plank looks damp from the last rain.  Brown stalks of ironweed: looking not that different from the brown stalks of goldenrod.

State of the Creek:  My shadow, not quite as black as a couple days ago, glides across the water, then hops out of the stream to creep up the honeysuckle.  Pools of water, orange from afar, turn into mirrors of the creekside trees up close.

The Fetch:   I pitch the birch branch a little into the goldenrod around the “chokeberry” and the honeysuckle.  When we reach level 2, I decide to keep saying “put it down” to see how long Mway will go.  I forget to count the fetches, but finally, though I say “put it down” twice, Mway keeps the stick in her mouth, and I don’t press the issue.  Hear her huffing behind me as we walk by the sumacs, until she passes me as soon as the path widens near the walled garden.