How many syllables does a Haiku have? I couldn’t remember while I was kayaking on Robe Lake this afternoon, but I was inspired to compose one or two or three to the wonders of autumn.
Ah, yes, 17: 5, 7, 5 per line.
Kayak rests in reeds.
Paper rustles all around.
Dragonflies dancing.
There were many dragonflies out today, rustling like paper among the reeds and probing the water with their abdomens. I’ve been trying to identify the ones I saw, but I can’t find anything on the internet that looks quite right. I’ll keep checking. I watched one for several minutes as it perched on a half-submerged grass, one bronzed wing dipping below the water. My paparazzi behavior didn't phase it as it curled its abdomen down and repeatedly probed the water, appearing to be laying eggs on the grass and reeds, but would they be laying eggs in the autumn?
Ah, a few more minutes of research gave me a possible answer. According to John Morton in an article for the Peninsula Clarion, “Adults live only 1 to 2 months, and summers are short in Alaska after dragonflies emerge in the spring. Prior to their brief time as winged adults, they may spend as much as six years as larvae (also called nymphs) at the bottom of a lake, stream or wetland. During this time, they may molt 8 to 17 times, with their developing wingbuds getting larger each time. Some species overwinter as eggs and some as nymphs.” It is, therefore, entirely probable that my dragonfly was indeed laying eggs. I love it when I guess right!
Mountains, trees, still lake.
Boundaries blurred, edges lost.
Autumn reflections.
Unlike the busy dragonflies, Robe Lake was still this afternoon. Weeks of torrential rains had raised the water level, so much so that I paddled over to a section of reeds to see if the water really had built up against them like a dam. It seemed to swell and rise before it flooded the marshes. Of course, it hadn’t, but I couldn't shake the image.
Still water gives wonderful reflections, and they seem even more beautiful in the autumn when the multitude of greens mixes with a palette of golds, browns, and reds. As I gazed down the length of the lake, I noticed that it was difficult to see just how big it was. The solid edges and the reflected merged in a way that made the lake edge disappear. It seemed to go on forever. I knew that no matter how much I paddled, I’d never reach the loons I could hear calling in the distance. I was instead satisfied with nearer kingfishers, mergansers, and the ever-present dragonflies.
And the sun. I was more than satisfied to stop paddling, tip my head back, and bask in the muted rays. My well-hydrated skin relished the warmth, even the reduced intensity of fall.
The realities of our world can’t help but interfere with my pleasure, at least a little. As I paddled down a channel that went nowhere (and yet everywhere in my imagination) I enjoyed a stand of cattails growing in the area nearest the lake. Cattails are one of my harbingers of global climate change, right up there with receding glaciers and changing snowfall. As a child in Eagle River, I remember seeing photos of them and thinking that they were very cool looking, but not expecting to ever see one myself. Now I notice them all over south central Alaska. Perhaps they’ve always been here in isolated areas, but, if so, they are decidedly more prevalent now. Regardless, I bow to the inevitability of change and enjoy them.
If one wants to survive sanely in Alaska, one has to take advantage of every opportunity to enjoy life outdoors. With the forecast showing rain for the next week, I am grateful for this brief interlude.
