Today water level was low enough that I could cross into an area I had not previously explored. While many of these photos are in the areas I’ve walked before where the walker can see the lake and mountains, the other photos are from the heavily wooded area I found today.
Instead of walking around the neighborhood, today my neighbor and I took a long walk along one of the paths in Bonelli Regional Park ten minutes from where we live. There are over 30 miles of hiking and bike trails in the park. We took the easy paved walk overlooking the lake.
In summer people swim and boat here. Now it is mostly hiking, dog walking, biking, and fishing.
On this side of the lake many houses, some very large, overlook the lake. A few have vineyards or orchards on the slope near the houses.
Mt Baldy rises in the background. Several of the mountains remain snowcapped.
Several species of ducks, but mostly mallards, and a few geese reside here. In this area we saw a man fishing.
Three poems follow:
Nature
Nature is
a beautiful place
so start
kicking that
can all over
the place
we will
we will
rock
you
Ethan Singletary
As I am laying at home
I hear a loud thunderous noise
The sound startled me out of my seat
I looked out the window
There was a giant funnel
I heard the tornado siren
As the trees were coming out of ground
I run downstairs to take cover
The storm was ruling the land, but
I was safe from the natural catastrophe.
Makenna Byrd
The Grip
As the wind blows and the storm flows through this
Desolate wasteland
As you wonder the numbing thunder puts you at peace
As the wind whips and the storm grips the desolate ground
As it whirls and twirls bringing wreckage
to the sky
Someone brings a tractor to clean up
this decay
For this storm may bring sorrow but all through
the hollow the great sorrow is met with a great
peace
As the family sifts among the rubble and
finds on this trouble at least they are in
one piece
Corbin McKinney
dramatic weather changes
one day cold, next one almost hot
late blooms, gayfeather, groundswell,
native grasses blowing in the wind
owls hooting, robins on the patio
praying mantis, walking sticks
working on their last hunts,
other insects singing night songs
Tulip remnants float in my palm,
the color
of fresh blood,
of sunsets
cerise, burnt orange, gold.
A pale blue dragon
thunders
across a salmon sky.
Slowly indigo night
descends.
Only the night hawks call.
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