The Preserve: Place 1

It’s dusk. Everything looks sad. The trees, mostly maples and oaks I think, are frowning, weighted down by the clouds’ tears; or just rain, which I suppose is sad enough without me calling it names. The sky is dirty, gray and smoky like the walls of our house just a few weeks ago before painting. They were white, or maybe egg shell, but a decade of forced heat blowing through our duct work – that giant pipe smoking fat man lounging in our basement – dusted those walls a layer of soot that we didn’t really see the extent of until we white washed the ceilings. Sometimes you don’t notice how ugly something is until something truly beautiful comes along, or vice versa. Take, for instance, the black duck standing about ten feet from me at this very moment. He’s hollering at the couple throwing bread to the good looking ducks, apparently the more popular ducks, on the other side of the pond. This is what’s happening right now, shortly before the earth covers up, rolls over to sleep.

Suppose I’d better tell you where I am. Sesqui Drive (I like that, sounds Native American; I’ll look it up) is about a mile down Library Road in South Park, a wooded community in the South Hills of Pittsburgh. There’s a small wildlife preserve just off the side of the road. It’s only a few miles south of our house, which incidentally has freshly painted walls, olive green they are now, not unlike the walls of this game preserve, the forest surrounding me. I will let you know what plants and animals are here on a future visit. I bought a field guide and promptly left it at home.

Your mom and I brought you here a couple times. Once, we saw deer just up the tree line, no doubt scouting for food or maybe just looking for a quiet spot to reflect on the day.

The preserve itself is really just a small pond surrounded by a bed of rocks that slope upward to a metal railing and a sidewalk. At the far end of the pond, opposite the parking lot is a wooden bridge. I am standing on it now. It is my favorite attraction, if you could call it that, in the area. I like it even more than the peacock, which I will tell you about later. The bridge is only ten yards long or so and made of wood. It almost looks like it grew from the earth, slowly making its way, year after year, from one bank to the next. And now it’s mature enough for us to walk across its back. There is something special about wooden bridges; maybe it’s the idea of nature and man working together for aesthetics and utility. Maybe it’s because my great grandfather made a hobby out of photographing wooden covered bridges. Maybe they remind me of building a clubhouse with my dad. I’m not sure, but it’s nice and I think I’ll come back, even though today is sad. It’s getting dark; the garbage is overflowing with too many empty bread bags, Starbucks cups and Wendy’s wrappers. Even the two sunflowers are hanging their heads and the clouds are beginning to cry again.

But, as I walk toward my truck, I hear the sound of mallards in the sky coming near. In just a few short seconds they fly directly overhead in the familiar V shape. The ducks on the pond seem to say hello as the formation swiftly passes, and for a moment I forget how sad it feels. Instead I think of how beautiful it will be when the sun crawls back over the horizon. Next time I’ll come a little earlier in the day. And I’ll be sure to bring you with me.