mud puppy

Photo by: Euronion

mud, mud, mud, mud, mud . . .

I'm not really a sky person. I grew up with the freedom of open fields and woods, in a time when neighbourhood yards were unfenced and children and adults knew fears resided elsewhere.

In the spring, the empty field a block away (really a large, unused industrial lot with a single, grand chestnut tree at its centre) would flood in inches of water. The water seemed to stay a long time. My brothers and I would go to the field with our glass containers and water buckets and catch tadpoles, bring them home and watch them grow legs. I don't remember if any of them lived long enough to become toads -- but there were plenty of toads.

On Sunday I wandered north through the lovely, sedate mansions of Rosedale seeking the Brickworks in the Don Valley. I finally found access to the valley, but none of the way was paved. With the spring thaw and recent rains, the grass squished. The dirt roads and paths took one's utmost concentration in the pursuit of dry, forward progress.

Mud on children in galoshes, mud on tepid daytrippers, mud splashed up on the backs of kicking runners, mud on prepared birdwatchers, mud on filmmakers guised as camouflaged snipers, mud being deliciously cleaned away by large dogs wading in waist-high muddy water.

mud, mud, mud, mud, mud . . .