On Pennies

Dillard, kayaks; fish and heron; a poem.

After five years of staring at our pond from the banks, experiencing it as a terrestrial creature only — finally broke down and bought a canoe. A kayak, really — or, a hybrid. Wide and open-topped, it has the stability of a canoe, but, roto-molded and sleek, it is maneuverable like a kayak. The fellow I bought it from had it collecting dust in his basement, having been used twice then put away after his kids left the house. As his household is shedding childhood wonder, mine is collecting it.

Brought it home and set it afloat straight-away. Through the lily pads and waternymphs we pushed, out to a stretch of open water. Drifting.

I’d always wondered if the pond held fish. From the shore we have seen turtles and frogs and hundreds of tadpoles and polliwogs, flitting and darting through the shadows. We’ve heard their songs at night. And our heron, stoic, predatory — I watched him the other day from my writing desk snap a chipmunk from a stump — seems to fill his gullet regularly enough to stay. So with all this I had assumed — but lacked confirmation. A moment of stillness was all it took. Beneath the rippling cat’s paws, I saw silvery baitfish a plenty, perpetually in motion. Most were small, no bigger than a pinky finger — shiners, I’d wager — but every so often, something larger. A mottled flash, a flick of tail. Curiosity piqued. Next time, will bring a fishing rod; a net, at the very least.

I’ve been reading Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. Reading is generous. How is one expected to read when the writing is so good? The other night I lay in bed, reading; Mrs. CWD in the other room feeding the Monkey. This was the fifth night in a row I found myself like this — and still, I had yet to finish the first chapter, all fifteen pages of it. Just can’t concentrate: the prose so beautiful — meandering, poignant, breathlessly good. It breaks my heart. How can I ever call myself a writer when faced with this?

Still, I press on. She writes of cultivating “a healthy poverty and simplicity, so that finding a penny will literally make your day,” and continues that “the world is in fact planted with pennies[…] It is that simple. What you see is what you you get.” I look to the bottom of the pond. The silver flash of fin is just another penny, cast broad by the universe. I slip my hand into the water, grasping — but come up empty-handed. I watch instead a heron wading, stalking, striking, swallowing. My day is made.

Drinking in Tinker Creek
“We must uncenter our minds from ourselves” —
seeing without seeing.

There are deer in the woods
when you’re not looking for them;
the tree with lights in it 
is not a tree at all.