Coot Morning

This morning we walked at Red Rocks Lake near Fruita, Colorado. The golden leaves on cottonwoods by the Colorado are turning brittle and brown. Many have fallen off.

The air is on edge with flocks of birds headed south along the flyway. Some land in the trees. Others rest on the lakes. It is a time of nervousness, excitement, and peril.

For today write about:

  • a journey
  • a local animal migration
  • being a target
  • hunting
  • a refuge

Near the end of the day instead of its start, here’s mine:

Coots

It doesn’t seem fair

that coots

should be so

sadly designed,

with feet

not as webbed

as more

efficient water birds

and wings so weak

they must

run across

the water

to take off

from the lake.

On winter ice

they wander

among larger

birds like

goslings.

Even their

name is

plain and simple.

though tinged

with shady character.

Where they go

in summer

I do not know,

but every fall

they flock back.

Though less

than fair,

the coots

endure.

copyright Linda J. Armstrong, 10/28/2012; all rights reserved

 

Under Golden Cottonwoods

I’m late posting my daily poem today because we spent the morning enjoying the fall colors here in western Colorado’s Grand Valley. If you would like to borrow related ideas, try writing about:

  • a memorable walk
  • autumn
  • trees or a tree
  • a river
  • a long-term relationship

 

Under Golden Cottonwoods

sunlight filters

through golden leaves

as we walk

together in a protected

open space

by a river that flows

with few interruptions

from melted

early snows on peaks

just out of sight

here in the first

of many arid valleys

it encounters

on its way to the Gulf.

We talk

as we walk, pausing

now and then

to take pictures

away, from this stream

of moments,

crisp and golden

as the leaf-meal

air.

copyright Linda J. Armstrong, 10/23/12 all rights reserved