Thanks, Tim! It is a lovely shot (taken with a mono-pod, Optical Image Stabilization, and a little luck, in low light levels nearing dusk).
Seven generations ago - before my ancestors "the conquerors" arrived, salmon migrated up this (then significantly larger and deeper) creek, and were caught in weirs made by the First Peoples every Spring. Nowadays - I have heard that there were salamanders living in the creek (but have never seen trace of a one in the last six years that I have been spending time regularly by the creek. Someone dumped their goldfish collection in a holding-pool up-stream, and they and their offspring have survived in that restricted pool, never venturing downstream, however ...
However, last Fall near dusk I watched in wonder as a (sadly, only one-clawed) Pacific Signal Crawfish (essentially, a fresh-water lobster) made it's way across the turbulent creek. (Of course), I did not have a camera with me ... I watched it for some time in wonder, and tried to slow down the water rushing around the creature using fallen branches, as it had gotten itself into quite a turbulent spot in the creek, and I worried that (especially with only one claw left to use), it might be trapped in that place, and not be able to feed. They munch on little bits of greenery in fresh-water creeks.
Have never seen it since (they are nocturnal in general, and likely very vulnerable to a number of hungry birds, including Hawks, Ravens, and occasional Eagles along with the more common avian fare) - not to mention a fair number of Raccoons that feed along the creek-banks (and even a very occasional Coyote and stray Bear). I always think about the little critter when I am at that location in the Creek, and for some time after I would watch for it's return. There was something both magical and tenuous about sighting this lone little creature ... I somehow identify with it in it's ancient and highly disadvantaged evolutionary status - struggling to survive with only one claw.
Before "civilization" here, the creek was lush with life, and nourished what were likely some of the world's tallest trees (400 Feet high, and 15-Feet in diameter). Now the Dear Lady of the Creek is but a shadow of her former self, waiting patiently for the Thunderbirds to return, liquefying the Cascadia Subduction Zone every 500 years on average, and return the land to it's former primeval majesty ...
Dear Lady of the Creek
In secret places of sanctity, through time and tides,
aeons pass within moments, like droplets of sweet rain
slowly nurturing perennial swaths of emerald green mosses
gently wrapping around Nature's primeval, delicate frame,
eventually finding their way back to the ancient Salish Sea.
While thoughtfully perched upon primeval, stoic stones
embraced and softly caressed by the lady of the creek,
dark nights of the soul immersed within tempestuous seas
wane with dawn's graceful glow; remembrances of eternity
amidst moments timeless, within sanctuaries sublime.
Through such places of quiet sanctity I often wander
amidst a sliver of ancient evergreen forest abounding
with lush mosses, ferns, plethoric and ubiquitous flora
gently embracing perennial springs and sacred streams
slowly finding their way to ponds, lakes, and the Sea.
Those who came before us here for some 12,000 years
held similar metaphors for river, mouth, and language.
Stoic stones amidst the creeks still make water speak
of aeons before, of Nature's gravity unheard amidst
today's concrete jungle; beyond ontological vanity.
Oft while lightly perched upon mossy, stoic stones
amidst the natural wonder of yet unspoiled streams
a little bird protean wistfully daydreams of visiting
secret lush and green places of timeless sanctity,
glimpses of Nature's primeval and delicate frame,
timeless beauty, perennial swaths of emerald moss,
ancient flora flourishing amidst lush and muddy bogs,
rocks gently caressed by the dear lady of the creek
having, merely a few blinks before in the eye of time,
nurtured what may have been the earth's tallest trees.
The cool, damp soil abounds with reverberations of time,
signs of those who came before for some 12,000 years;
human hearts, hopes, struggles, standings, and fears,
trails smoothed by many feet, many unrecognized tears
fallen into eternal springs joining the lady of the creek.
Following this conscious stream as she winds, by gravity,
one part above the ground, with three parts as well below,
she finds her riverine essence, gathering her timeless stones
of ancient origin so long ago in the taciturn folds of eternity,
where only the stillness confides that which was once to be.
She gently sings to them, eventually softening even the edges
of the most stoic and ragged of rocks with her hydroxyl touch,
nurturing mysterious and seemingly unlikely alliances sublime,
incarnations of sentient intention from which an order derives
for a time, corporeal emergences of flora and fauna sublime.
Gathering strength from her respite, and gently called by gravity,
meandering slowly yet gracefully while making her way to the sea,
bounding forth in her journey allied with newly found fresh springs,
the lady of the creek unseen to all but most delicate eyes dreams,
"Will you be young with me? The dust is nothing. The soul is all."
Mystery constitutes the processional inverse
of all conceptualization and explanation;
limitless horizon beyond measure;
treasures beyond possession;
awareness without certainty;
remembrances of eternity.
) on my Panasonic Lumix cameras ...
