Milk of the Earth

Saturday morning’s walk could be described as anything but usual.  The first day after more than two months of solid rain and constant flooding offered many an obstacle, not the least of which included mires of mud hidden behind every blade of grass.  There simply existed no clear path if one veered off the concrete trail.  Believe me, I left a shoe behind on more than one occasion, and I also assure you it was quite entertaining for everyone except me when it came time to get my foot back in the shoe without putting a socked foot into the same wet mess—especially because the shoe was behind me.

But I digress. . .

I indulged my need to commune with nature despite knowing the dangers that awaited the casual stroller.  And although my photographic endeavors suffered tremendously for lack of access to anything but the human-safe areas, I did ponder one amazing artifact of torrential rains that never seemed to end.


Every creek and tributary leading to the lake seemed less water and more milk, a smooth green substance that reminded me of melted mint ice cream.  I marveled at the color of it, the smoothness of its unmoving surface (for where do feeds go when the destination already is flooded?).


I can only surmise that much detritus and debris had washed into these aquatic paths.  If the lake was indeed any indication, that much was true, for the confluence of many streams provided an odd dichotomy between the influx of colored water and the stoic face of the lough’s own tint.  Watching the magic created by this merging of disparate souls simply can’t be described.

Yet the very next day I found these same waterways had returned to their normal hues.  In only twenty-four hours the Earth’s milk had run dry, only to be replaced by so much boring water.

So I leave you with this feeble visage of crepuscular rays as, for the first time in months, sunshine greeted the morning dew by pushing its way through thick verdant foliage.  I’ve never seen the trees so happy…


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