Place Entry Eight

My last day to post about the lake has me feeling pretty sad. Spring in Florida is unpredictable and often fleeting. We’re only a few weeks into the season, and I already feel summer approaching. It’s eighty-six degrees and the breeze is slight. Signs of winter have disappeared in such a short time. Cattail grasses are no longer brown. The wind bends the long fronds into a bow northward, grasshopper green with yellow tips like palms from Palm Sunday masses.

Orange trees in groves on the West and North side of the lake are without their small orange spheres, without February-March blossoms, without fragrance, and all are green. Spring happens quickly here until all seems green. Azaleas are undressing; petals on the ground encircle the base. The coots that I’ve gotten so used to seeing are gone. They stay in Florida until April, and at mid-month they’ve already flown up north to lakes that have just melted.

Today I watch a lone dragonfly gliding across the surface of the water. Every now and again he makes a quick turn to the right or left as if he changes his mind while staying on course. He looks like a miniature, delicate helicopter without a landing pad, although flying low like a bush pilot. I feel anxious about the disappearance of the coots and the one dragonfly. I feel as if I can hear the petals of pink flowers falling. My inability to hold spring reminds me of all other things I love but can’t have near. All things that pass by or stay just beyond my reach.

The large cumulous clouds collect behind me. I notice them after the breeze picks up. They are heavy and moving in the direction of the lake. They look like summer, but they offer no rain.