I am a very lazy person

This morning I woke early and walked from my house in Petaluma to the river. That's all of four blocks, though I took a sidelong approach and so walked a bit further. In the fields north of the Washington Street bridge (which is hung with netting), I saw tall slender plants with blue radial flowers and coyote bush, as well as much forgotten asphalt and concrete and plastic. A man by the river's edge acknowledged me. I walked a bit further upstream, so that I might watch birds and bugs without disturbing him or being disturbed. Cliff swallows swooped and darted up along metal siding that rises from the water: it makes a convenient anchor for their nests. Paddling up and past me went a quartet of mallard drakes; then a sextet of mallard hens flew by. In the cloudy brown and green water eight feet below me, I caught at intervals that magical flash of silver that speaks of fish. Although I could make out the sounds of automobiles from the freeway less than a mile away and from Washington Street, mostly I heard the swallows, singing sparrows, the rustle of plants in a gentle breeze.

So much of this sort of beauty can be had just a short walk from our homes. And yet I am so disastrously lazy that I walk along the river no more than once a season.

On my way past the converted warehouses and feed facilities that show their asses to the river, I watched a great egret fly over and, minutes later, a black-crowned night heron. They have the most marvelous wings.