Where Fairies Ride

The prediction that afternoon temperatures would soar into the 90s led me to walk earlier today, enjoying the company of the more gentle, rising sun. The pond world is a different world at 7:30 a.m., and I must say I like it.

Peace comes dropping slow, 

dropping from the veils of the morning.

W.B. Yeats

A delicate mist rose from the surface of the water as the ducks took their morning bath. The crows were as brazen and brash as ever, showing no appreciation whatsoever for morning meditation. (I don't care for crows.) The geese and heron which I had seen yesterday were nowhere in sight.

Nearly every twist and turn in the path glimmered with the handiwork of industrious spiders. The dew on each silver thread was the "glisten" that I hoped I'd see in some shape or other today.

Of a Spider
Wilfrid Thorley

The spider weaves his silver wire
Between the cherry and the brier.

He runs along and sees the thread
Well-fastened on each hawser-head.

And then within his wheel he dozes
Hung on a thorny stem of roses,

While fairies ride the silver ferry
Between the rose-bud and the cherry.

I was alone on the path today, except for another autumnal lady . . . who looked rather familiar. Even though her legs resembled tree trunks.

A chattering flock of vireos startled me as I rounded the last bend. They lighted on the branches of the Hawthorn tree, tempting with its bright red berries. Dozens of the little sage-yellow birds darted from branch to branch, warbling a cheerful morning song that echoed across the fields as I stepped homeward.

Vireo gilvus