They form a bullseye where just before there had been a fly that dawdled overly long, enticing one of the small carp that cruised quietly below the water's surface to loom quietly up from the bottom and strike with that swift efficiency that marks the predator. The fish, hungry after a long winter, are kept busy by this afternoon's hatching, their presence marked only by a sudden splash of gold against the dull green of the water. Today was Super Tuesday, the pivotal point in this season's presidential campaign. Due to the voting, the schools were closed and I was left in charge of my grandson for the day. The place was jammed with strollers and joggers and inline skaters and oversized boys on undersized bikes and giggling gaggles of teenagers all vying for territory on the paved path that winds its way alongside the creek.
Small children run back and forth between the play ground and the banks of the creek.
Like all those other kids, my grandson was drawn to the creekside first by the ducks and then by the prospect of catching a real fish. He flayed at the water with a dead reed, hoping to somehow draw one of those fish close enough to . . . I stood there watching over him, making tentative feints whenever he looked like he might be getting too close to the water's edge for my comfort, but mostly just leaving him alone to explore the wonderful little world that lay before his eyes as he crouched at water's edge, staring intently through the water. A breeze came up and the surface of the creek exploded in hundreds of tiny flashes of light that reflected from the tips of tiny wavelets pushed by the wind as it passed over the water's surface. Finally it was time to go.