Chapter 22

3937 Words

22 Whitaker Nature Ponds is in a quiet pocket of Northeast Portland. I love it in the fall, the explosion of color from the trees, how those striking colors reflect off the still pond waters, how bugs flit in to sip and then thrust themselves skyward before a bird ends their journey, how the trails are littered with fallen leaves, and especially how the summer crowds have thinned. No dogs are allowed here, either, which is perfect for watching the colorful wood ducks paddle by. A solitary canoeist has the slough to himself. A busy beaver has recently felled a few small trees along the water’s edge, upon which some Mallard couples have roosted to sun themselves in the surprise afternoon cloud break. “You okay?” I ask, once we’re seated on a bench on the observation dock. “I don’t know ye

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