When it is but written in the sand and concrete that you have to work the weekend, the mind begins its confabulations. It starts making plans for a heist. Almost. Stealing time, more like it. Could a few hours be stolen from the weekend routine to go and walk in the Boulder country?
And so, on Saturday I did walk the South Boulder Creek. Reaching the Bobolink trail. Now, having read about bobolinks in Emily Dickinson’s poems, one is desperate to see that famous bird. And the long walk brought us to streams and haunted cabins. Haunted is a romantic notion. But then when you’ve grown up reading Louis L’amour westerns your mind is always thinking of old cowboys and Indians on their horses, sipping burnt coffee and talking about nature when they were not fighting.
And swallows. Hundreds of them. Flying all over us.
Six miles on, there was no sign of the Bobolink on the Bobolink Trail. Except that drawing of a lone bird on the stone that marked the trail.
But there were those swallow nests to watch and whisper to. And flycatchers, magpies, robins, blackbirds, wrens, doves, and.
Just when it was time to hike the long way back, we look up to spot an eagle or a heron. And we did. But then we saw them. Bobolinks. Five of them. With bright yellow heads. Flying across the blue sky.