Umbrellas & Sandwiches

It’s poured and poured over the last two days in Melbourne, but today it was just a drizzle when I woke up in the half-light, so I scrambled into my sweats, sneakers and coat and headed out.

There was nobody around as I walked down my street. The occasional car chugged past with foggy windows and wipers swinging, but there were no other walkers. It was early.

By the time I got to the park the drizzle had eased a little and I began to encounter a passing parade of slightly soggy walkers.

A lady with a blue umbrella and a black dog crossed the path ahead of me, walking through the trees and along the edge of the paddock.

I walked on, taking the path that led to the other end of the park. Halfway along this route was the pond.

The track was lined with lush grass, giant gum trees, and scrabbly bushes.

Fledgling wattle shook its tiny golden pompoms as I passed.

Raindrops clung and slipped from overhanging branches like glass beads.

Wiry twigs made little sketches in the trees.

Painted markings spelled out instructions. A dash. A line. A person. A dog. A bike. Another dash.

I passed a jumble of dogs galivanting with clumsy delight on a triangle of grass, their beanie-d and bright-jacketed owners looking on. (Possibly equally delighted. It’s hard to know with the current mask situation.)

Further along the path I passed another black dog. And then another, this one with a chocolate-coloured belly.

So. Many. Black. Dogs.

And all of them seemingly having a wonderful time and beloved by devoted owners. It’s very bolstering to see.

Further ahead I spot four familiar shapes. This time it’s not dogs, but rather the sapphire-chested swamp hens that live in the middle of the parkland. This sighting tells me that I’m almost at the pond and as I approach them, they scuttle into the scrub, necks thrusting, orange beaks flashing.

(excuse crappy photo! look at that chest though!)

I dodge another walker and then I’m there, the green-grey water stretching out in front of me, penned in by swathes of reeds. A crooked little jetty pokes one corner out into the morning, the rest of it submerged thanks to the previous days’ rain.

A wattle bird sweeps its reflection across the still surface, and as I walk through the muddy grass towards the bridge that stretches from this side to a little forest, I see that the bridge is flooded too. I stand on the bit that is not under water and listen for the frogs, listen to the shrieking birds, try to shut out the hum of the nearby freeway.

Two ravens are leaping about on the grass, sharing a thrown-away sandwich. One nudges a piece of discarded orange peel with its beak, then they both fly up into a nearby tree, one triumphantly holding the white-bread crust.

I walk back near the jetty and pull my mask down for a second to breathe in the eucalyptus morning.  The pond surface shifts gently like someone quietly arranging themselves under a blanket.

Sometimes you can see a cormorant couple at this spot, or a white-faced heron. But today it’s just the hens and a handful of ducks. (Which is perfect!)

I pull my mask back up and head back along the path towards home, passing a man with an orange umbrella. A man with a running stroller. A woman with a black dog.

I decide to listen to an audio book on the walk back, flipping on the Maggie O’Farrell story I’ve been rationing carefully. It’s up to a bit about witches and I think that the older I get the more I am interested in things that happened long ago and the less I am interested in things that are happening right now.

I also think I can’t wait to have my first cup of tea for the day.