Ducks & Froggies

17 October 2019 – Well, that’s misleading. There are no ducks or froggies in this post.

But it’s only initially misleading. Think of it as my preamble.

When I was little, and the rain came pouring down, my mother would chant some nursery doggerel in my ear that began, “I don’t like the rain / But the ducks & froggies do…” and went through a long list of Good Deeds done by rainfall to conclude, “So I am glad there’s sometimes a rainy day / Aren’t you?” My dad would discreetly roll his eyes, but, see, the sentiment has stuck with me, if not the specific list of watery Good Deeds.

Still, you only have to look around to see candidates for the list.

Happy plant life, for example.

Fern fronds, new & old, glow in the pearly light …

So do these pieris leaves, new & old …

And this rhodo, with buds already set for spring …

And this yellow rose bush, not to be outdone, with buds popping into bloom right now.

And then, and then …

And then, even though there’s not a duck or froggy in sight, I can at least offer you some orange giraffes.

As good as a rainbow, yes?

Your eye follows rain-dark Main Street north-north-north right to Burard Inlet, and smacks into those dazzling cranes, set afire by a shaft of sunlight that — just for a moment — finds a gap in the clouds.

 

 

A Loop Beneath a Rain-Rich Sky

14 September 2019 – Rich more in promise than delivery, though, as I write this, rain is pelting down.

Earlier, the sky is merely lowering, luminous grey, the air heavy with its cargo of rain. But I am now a Vancouverite, am I not? I put on my jacket, tuck a mini-umbrella into my backpack, and off I go.

A loop, I tell myself: down to the eastern end of False Creek, west up its north side to the Cambie bridge, over the bridge, back east to Creek-end once more, and home.

I’m not the only Vancouverite. Waving-cat Maneki-nako stops waving, wraps his paw around an umbrella instead, and turns into rain-cat.

Luminous sky means darker darks & punched-up colour, this rain-filled trench in a construction site suddenly a turquoise pond.

Site equipment rears dark against the sky …

as do hydro poles in a nearby alley, their attendant crows somehow even blacker than  usual.

Down on False Creek, an inukshuk seems to huddle against the chill …

and tide height turns rock tips into dark islands in the glittering waters.

A woman stops beside me, also contemplating the rocks. We chat, her small dog with butterfly ears yips at a passing gull. “I named him Napoleon for good reason,” she sighs. “Small Frenchman with big attitude.”

Just before the south-side ramp up onto the Cambie bridge, I pause again. A kid & his skateboard take a breather beside the mural with its large “Stay in school” message. It’s Saturday. He’s legal.

Over the bridge, and, starting down the spiral staircase at the south end, I hear music.

I look over the edge.

Some passer-by has pushed  back the protective tarp, and started playing the public piano that lives here on Spyglass Dock every summer. The music swells; the pavement murals glow in the mist.

A little farther east, I watch crows fly in to join their fellows in a favourite staging tree. Come evening, they’ll take wing for their nightly migration to the next municipality over, Burnaby. Night after night, they swirl past my balcony, dozens at a time.

 

Mist has turned to drizzle; drizzle is thickening to rain. One more line of hydro poles, as I cut south-east toward home. No crows here, just one bright saw-tooth line of pink warning flags.

And now… rain! I scamper.

(You’re right: this is not the post I semi-promised you last time around. This one seemed more here-and-now. That one comes next. Yes! I promise.)

  • WALKING… & SEEING

    "Traveller, there is no path. Paths are made by walking" -- Antonio Machado (1875-1939)

    "The voyage of discovery is not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes" -- Marcel Proust (1871-1922)

    "A city is a language, a repository of possibilities, and walking is the act of speaking that language, of selecting from those possibilities" -- Rebecca Solnit, "Wanderlust: A History of Walking"

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