Down by one of the elongated bays
where the roadway slinks through a wetland,
there is a viewing-fishing-passing-by area.
You got some wire fencing,
a sorta smooth asphalt path,
a roadway with rotting guardrails
and down in the water, a culvert
you can paddle through
that allows uptown Northumberland Hills water
to scurry into Lake Ontario.
Fishermen stand on that large road pipe to cast a line.
Families and couples with antsy dogs stop to stare at its issue.
Geese hump their awkward asses onto land either side.
In the middle of summer, the smooth water that flows from it
can be impossible to canoe,
the water table cluttered with green-saucer water lilies.
It was twilight the other night,
just finished my bike run to the Lighthouse and back,
ducks of various blends and sizes were on the water,
parked close and far.
Nature's plump white-feathered vegetation vacuums were upended.
Geese pairs, casual as boaters on a Victorian pond, were afloat.
Two geese buddies obviously pissed with each other
were butt biting, chest butting and land chasing each other.
Over head the moon was looking very storybook.
Oh, so large and white, with faint age lines.
The sky was that lonesome blue,
fading into darkness soon.
Then I saw him, could be a she,
knew he was in the vicinity,
because there is chicken wire around the bigger trees.
And, there has been sign up since the fall,
tailor-made just for him.
So, not completely unexpected.
But there he was… doing his beaver swimming thing.
Little beaver nose out of the water.
Little beaver face with slicked back fur.
Little V of water ripples spreading out behind him.
I watched him swim as he followed the shoreline
like my brother in his fancy boat does when he's out just lookin'.
Pulling in tight for a closer view,
maybe to see if there is any beaver value at water's edge,
he resumed course at a distance.
Perhaps, he was just on his evening rounds of the neighbourhood.
And as he became smaller and smaller the further from me,
I found myself in a familiar reverie,
asking what guides creatures?
I find it difficult to believe
that they are simply natural machines
operating within the system of nature to
visual and physical prompts engineered by genetic programming.
Sometimes a creature symphony in front of me,
like this tableau of birds and beaver framed by a gentle Spring evening,
transcends itself and teases me.
Evolution doesn't have all the answers.