Ten minutes

Here, a house to view from, a great lake and its rough shore, all seemingly belonging to eternity. And what's to see if it's all geological time, if nothing changes, or things change all so slowly my need for stimulus cannot wait for it. But it's not like that. I think I could pick any amount of time, but all week here the one that has kept coming to my mind is:

Every ten minutes there is something new.

I have an hour here. We'll check in every ten minutes to demonstrate my point. This quiet magic of change might be true everywhere in the world forever and for everyone. I don't know. It is true here.

We start with:

3:40:    The 13 geese are leaving. For awhile they sat directly out, 50 feet off shore, in a ragged line. Their business is done here.

3:50:    A bird starts cheaping. One "Cheap" a second. I went to go find it but found only flowers and the first splashes of waves breaking on the rocks that I have seen for two days.

4:00:    I look around. Nothing. I am panicked because I really dislike being wrong, but I am merely looking the wrong way. It's down. An orange butterfly, like a small monarch. The first butterfly I have seen here at all. The moment I see it, and spot it land, a seagull flies overhead.

4:10:    A small group of sleek swift birds sprint across the shoreline. Just as they're leaving my view they dart half back to the center of it, as if far more than any travel, they are absorbed in some chase game of flying. Then they turn again and, dartingly, they are gone.

4:20:     I look. Nothing, a dog barking, a rare sound here that I hate. A seagull is now floating off shore. The sun comes out, and the sun hides. I feel I can count none of this. Why can't a moose amble up the shore. That would be a good one! All I get is a fly, landing next to me on the balcony ledge. Hey! Wait! I know this fly!

4:30:    Oops. I sort of lost track of time writing something else. I'll pay better attention, but I am nearly certain that clump of purple flowers there have newly bloomed in the last ten minutes. Ninety-five percent certain.

4:40:    Only a bit cloudier than before, and yet, it drizzles, barely, for five seconds.