Willows. I am drawn to them.
I kayak out along the waterway and down little creeks into marshes with willows growing along the water’s surface, ducks perched quacking on their branches, the din of the city fading behind me.
At the end of one rivulet, I find myself in a park full of willows – weeping willows and willows that stand tall reaching up through time to the sky, willows as far as I can see and in every direction, the sun shining hazily through their small fluttering leaves.
Sitting in my boat by a willow branch that drags down into the water, I gaze at the current as it sweeps past on either side of me.
Little silver fish jump up to catch flies and other bugs, a flash and they disappear into a ring of ripples. The water is as calm as glass, reflecting the big white clouds overhead.
Electric blue and gold and red velvet bodied dragonflies with brown gossamer wings flit and land on a small wooden bridge, their tails curling.
Overhead, the humming song of cicadas heralds the warmth of the day.