Wind and Lake

The rocks are grey as are the low hanging clouds of this wind-gusted day.  Rays of yellow cast through the low ceiling dully, creating vague memories of light across the lateral horizon.  The water, stirred by a harried wind sloshes in rhythmic whipcracks against the rocks, piling further the driftwood, archaic in worn boneyard disarray.  Gulls yowl above, hanging in air like Christmas ornaments, grey backed, unlit, wings tipped in black.

I pull out my small pad and am startled by the brilliant white in contrast against the murky colors surrounding me.  It almost seems rude, out of place, for the white to be there like a star, a gnomon, a hole in space.  My pen busies itself with laying out words in black ink, turning the pages from white to grey, beaten as stone.

Two fools in a rowboat lurch amid waves just within the safety of the inner wall, one seated at the stern, the other at the bow.  They balance on some line of fate, keeping steady and upright as the wind pushes them towards shore, so they'll be fine if they remain alert.  One stands now, plying a fishing rod upwards, the gulls cruising over to view what discards may occur.

A company schooner with red sails had earlier set out, cloth billowed tightly against the pressure of wind, held in the grip of current.  Less than ten minutes have passed, and her sails are down while every person I see aboard is standing.  She motors back up the Buffalo River, to moor at the new wharf.  Here I am, seated on old rocks that saw living things before the dinosaurs, leaning into the fresh wind that smells of fish, seaweed, and silt stirred from the bottom.

The sandbar is a brown streak of water to the north of two buoys; nearer to the water intake, the Emerald Channel covets all the green created by clarity and the light that reflects off the bed of limestone beneath.  We have a startlingly green river because of this limestone, most evident at Niagara Falls where the minerals and salts picked up by the water catch the light as they tumble over the crestline of the cascade.

And, ye gods, just when sense had taken hold and most boats returned to berths, a small, one-masted vessel manned by two new fools cuts out into the  forces.  The pilot's knees bend to keep his footing, as the prow goes airborne before diving into each trough.  They jibe and tighten in, the railing to starboard now skimming the surface of the rough water at a perilous clip; with only two aboard, they are getting a riotous sleighride, and narrowly miss the side of a larger craft whose sails are down.  I heard shouting and saw people on the bigger boat waving arms, not in a Hello There way.  The two yahoos battened down, trimmed sails, and shot forward like a bat out of hell.

I am again astounded when realizing that I sit on the edge of two worlds, after I turn my head and see the unmoving, lush lawns and gardens of the marina behind me, a steady, solid counterpoint to the liquid glacial turbulence that is raising temperamental Cain at the foot of the city.  As punctuation, a solitary Canadian goose paddles by, his well-oiled fanny bobbing along just like Sunday and what's the fuss?

I have no jacket and am chilled.  Heading back, clambering over rocks and debris, I trot with the wind at my back, to home and supper, pushed forward by atmosphere.  The air remains cool, and evening has brought calm evidenced by the tree tops standing still.  I have been looking for Baltimore Orioles, for a few nest around the area and I would like to see one; I have seen five in my life, and find it a surprise each time, a small happiness.

Time for closing windows and curtains, turning out lights and checking locks.  Sleep well, all.  Morning comes.