Tuesday, September 11, 2007


I have crossed a footbridge over a creek to reach the pebbly shore of Diablo Lake. This creek has made a ruckus recently. Huge trees have been dragged down, large boulders rolled around, and it has made itself a delta of cantaloupe-sized rocks among the trees. Trees, surprised to find themselves planted in mid-stream, are gamely going about their business, as the creek carves itself new channels.
I set up in the shade to paint the reflections of beginning fall colors on the lake. As the afternoon lengthens its shadows, a wind turns up its speed, fanning logs up the Colonial Creek arm. Reflections disappear into general turquoise ripples.
My husband points out that I am painting in the middle of a stream. The creek has changed its course since I sat down, and is about to engulf my camera and my journal. It’s as if the tide came in and I wasn’t watching the rise. I gather my equipment and move to higher ground, thinking of how everything changes.

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