A Saturday Afternoon Walk Poem by Raymond Farrell

Seems most Saturday afternoons
Are reserved for walking the dog
It has become a pleasant ritual
Rain, sleet, snow or fog
We are undaunting in our pursuit.

A warm Saturday in mid November
But for the ice on the creek
It could pass for late September
I chose the high ridge
For the view and well worn trails.

Every maple in the bush was bare
Crisp brown leaves littered the forest floor
Squirrels were madly busy everywhere
Thrashing through the leaves like elephants
Sending the dog off in hot pursuit.

It wasn't good enough just to walk
Without pausing to scan the valley below
Beaver meadows, rolling pastures, winding streams
Formed a curious beauty that moved slow
Penetrating deep into my being.

I came to a limestone ledge
At its base was a spring that started a stream
Which played a game of hide-and-seek
Meandering across the beaver meadow
Before unceremoniously entering the creek.

Never before have I seen the like of it
If there was one, there were 200 pollywogs
Massed together at the mouth of the stream
None of this lot will become frogs
Certain death is a matter of degrees.

Nature is wise and unrelenting
No rules are bent to accommodate
No delaying of winter and death
For tadpoles that hatched too late
Time moves forward, nature sheds no tears.