Clockwork [View all]

[H2O Man]

After watching the morning news, I found myself remembering what a Clan Mother told me many years ago: when the world starts spinning faster and faster, take time to slow down and clear your mind. In times past, Friday through Sunday were usually slow news days, with an occasional news dump. That is something that has changed since Trump took office.

Hence, I decided to work on my lawn-mower, at least until I found I had purchased the wrong-sized part. So I went out to the pond with my dog Kelly. On the walk out, I saw a young buck, which had been a fawn last year, eating the corn and sunflower seeds at the bird feeders. He watches us closely as we take a different path, and goes back to eating.

Kelly picks up a scent of great interest to him. I assume that he is following the path of the gray fox that come daily to our lawn, to scavenge any left-over cat and dog food. They have come since late April, when the female was clearly very pregnant. In the past week, the male and female come at the same time, and so I expect to see the kits by the end of the month.

As hot and humid as it is strolling along the path through the swamp, it is even hotter at the pond. Kelly immediately goes in for a drink and a quick swim. This signals to the fish that they are about to be fed. The Koi arrive first; the two largest ones always come very close to Kelly's legs. On this warm a day, even though I've brought extra fish food, it disappears within minutes.

There are numerous dragon flies, including one large, colorful fellow that found me curious when I tossed the fish food in. The Onondaga named them “mosquito hawks.” About a dozen of them are doing their duties around the pond.

Kelly is busy sniffing around, digging a hole here, rolling in the mud there. He reminds me of what is associated with a four-year old child's development: he plays for 5 or 6 minutes, comes over to interact with me, then goes back to playing for 5-6 minutes, then checks in again. Eventually, it's time to feed him, and we head back to the house.

My youngest daughter had mowed a section at the edge of our lawn, and built a nice fire pit from the stones she gathered nearby. We had used up the firewood she gathered the evening before, when we had cooked out and listened to her favorite Beatles' songs. While Kelly eats, I gather enough fire wood to last late into the night, for her and a friend who is coming over when they get off work on their summer jobs.

After supper, I turn on the television. Friday nights have changed. “Like clockwork,” I say to myself, as I listen to reports on Sean Spicer and Jeff Sessions. “The president is a Clockwork Orange.”