Robert (gurdonark) wrote,
Robert
gurdonark

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Elusive creatures

As I drove through the countryside, the African-American preacher from the Greenville AM radio station abjured me to avoid the casinos in Louisiana and Mississippi, the horse tracks in Grand Prairie and Arkansas and taking up with others folks' inamoratas. As I was mercifully free of any plans to spend my day at any of these pastimes, I felt guilt lift from me as if it were a veil. I could then see my way clear to hit the hiking trail at the Trinity Trail.

Trinity Trail is near Lucas, Texas. I found this really cool panoramic view of the countryside around Lucas. It goes around a 360 degree circuit of the area, and lets one "zoom in" by clicking on the bottom. If one looks at the part of the panorama which show Lake Lavon in the distance, then one will get some idea of Trinity Trail.

I went intentionally in the heat of the day. We had spent the early morning at International House of Pancakes (the blueberry syrup was divine, thanks very much), and I have made a solemn pact with myself this summer not to be kept indoors by the heat, but instead to venture out with good sense and a firm will. When I arrived at the trail, about 20 minutes' easy drive from my home (we'll skip the detour at the Dollar General Store, and the complete kids' art kit, with plastic drawers, I got for 3 dollars there), only my odd white "looks like a police car" sedan and a well-used BMW were present. The horse riders, who dominate this trail, had the good sense to make dawn rides.

The sound of cicadas along the trail was sheer ambient music.
They made symphonic crescendos and descrescendos, with cricket sounds serving as natural french horns to their endless bassoon.
I reflected on how sulphur butterflies, which flitted everywhere like yellow refugees, must be tasty to birds. Monarch butterflies are well known as avoided by birds as too bitter, and thus fly a leisurely flight path, unafraid of anything. Sulphurs fly like P-39s trying to dive bomb the jimson weed, sheer evasive maneuver.

I passed the other hikers, a nice couple with two obvious hike-seasoned miniature poodles and a non-descript but not teeth-prominent larger dog. I asked if the poodles were attack poodles. The nice man said they only did so if the magic command was given. I immediately promised to say "please" and "thank you" assiduously.

When I got to the lake view one reaches after 40 minutes, I headed down a narrower path to the water. The tiny beach was dry, but recent horse hoof marks were evident everywhere. I watched a huge great blue heron lope his way away leisurely, just above water level.

I walked back to my car, passing hundreds of thistles that have gone to seed, all cottony like huge dandelions. I continued to see myriads of grasshoppers flying their short, greenwing flights, and that odd dragonfly relative with the slow, easy flight. I snapped photos, none of which will rival my eyes. When I got back to my car, I saw a yellow and orange sail just over a hillside, and a power boat moving swiftly into shore. My holiday is over, but I am happy.

I drove over a lake bridge, when "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" played on the radio. I saw an immature heron, in the middle of the lake, standing on a protruding log. George Harrison continued to play, and in his song I was somehow a part of everything I saw.
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