Rain, rain, and more rain. The duck weed pond remained out of reach all week, the creek flooded, the footpath submerged. Then at last, yesterday, the sun. In the evening the waters subsided enough that walking the path was possible without being swept away.
Okay, yes, I did have to take off my shoes and wade through some mud. Squish, squish, squish, slippery creek mud around my ankles, in between my toes. Perhaps there will be a great disaster in the next few days, say a meteor, something spectacular, a quick death, not like the relatively slow effects of global warming, and my footprints will become fossilized and thousands of years from now someone will discover them and say, "Look, footprints, along this ancient creek bed. This unfortunate woman was probably fleeing from the great disaster, the meteor of 2007, (except they won't call it that) but it overtook her. Isn't it wonderful that we have her footprints here immortalized in the mud to forever mark her passing! Poor thing." Young children will come to look and study the distance between each of my toes and the length of my stride. They'll test the mud to see if there are any traces of foot fungus. They'll probably mark the place where I almost lost my balance and left long skid marks. They will argue about whether or not I was a lousy walker, unbalanced to begin with, or whether the mud in this particular place was just so slippery I was bound to slide. Oh, I imagine they're going to have fun with me, let me tell you. But they probably won't be able to tell I was headed for the duck weed pond and its green serenity. They certainly won't know that all the duck weed was missing, swept down the creek in the rain.