Where the Water Lingers
The birds—thousands upon thousands—pass in darkness heading north while the weary take refuge for a spell in the welcoming and generous Laguna.
Even as the land dries, a narrow waterway ties the Laguna to its watersheds and, eventually, to the Russian River. Other waters linger too, but in secretive pockets—vernal pools, elusive while out in the open fields.
Today’s walk is for them.
A Familiar Path
We slip past the back edge of a modest trailer park to a worn path, familiar. I keep my trained eyes in motion, scanning for hazards—gopher holes, soft ruts—those quiet hazards of flatland walking. My peripheral vision still serves me well.
To the east, my eyes settle and find rest in the mountains. Mount St. Helena sits in relief, her western face abrupt and stern. On cold mornings, from the next ridge, steam from the geysers can be seen following the wind steadily skyward.
Once, people went there to heal in hot mineral baths. Now the steam turns turbines for the grid, closed to seekers.
Vernal Pools and Old Land
Below those mountains, the Russian River Valley holds simpler patterns. The tall grasses, even after a generous winter, have dried into a palette of muted straw. Valley oaks cast long, knowing shadows. This is old land.
My guide, my wife, calls out a vernal pool. Modest from this distance—barely a shimmer of green, dusted over with minute blossoms. Easy to overlook. Easy, in the past, to lose to development.
I walk gently, heel first, careful not to disturb what might lie beneath: Pacific chorus frogs, maybe a salamander or two. The ground is too wet for sitting, so I use binoculars from the edge, taking in the full reach of it—perhaps two feet deep, and no wider than a living room.
But inside, there’s movement. Fairy shrimp, suspended and ancient, the size of a comma, in clear water.
How is it these pools, so fleeting, carry such weight? What matters here exists beyond our frameworks—beyond human use or recognition.
The Return View of Wonder
I turn back the way I came. I’ve never minded an out-and-back trail. The return reveals the reverse view of wonder. From the oaks, Song sparrows, Bullock’s orioles, King bird—all engaged in their seasonal rites.
Overhead, the larger birds circle high, waiting for quiet. Waiting, perhaps, for our departure from their brief and bountiful café.
No need to pity the frogs. They’ve adapted to the temporary and the invisible. They know when to sing, and when to go still.
Adapting Daily 