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2nd Place, Adult Writing Division: Seasons on Silver Creek by Rose Rumball-Petre
I walk Silver Creek in winter-on the banks, snow hugs straw-colored grasses tight. Later, thin, translucent, occasionally opaque ice thickens along the edges and sometimes in the middle. A solitary northern harrier springs from an adjacent cottonwood in pursuit of a vole, as the vole frantically looks for the next entrance to its tunnel under the snow. Trout are less commonly seen under the bridge now. Occasional fly fishermen sweep their lines from below the nearby highway bridge. The days change from icy winds whipping around muff-wrapped ears, to bitter cold marked by warming sun, to a whirl of snowflakes lighting my path. Last week, as the day warmed, fog-generated hoarfrost fell like snow from thickened white branches. Darkness comes early and dawn slowly. Mid-day walks are a must.
I walk Silver Creek in spring, scaring two Pintails from their floating reverie. Later, a mallard guides five, no six, ducklings trailing behind her under the bridge beneath my feet. I have canoed Silver Creek in spring, staring up as twin great-horned owlets looked down from their nest tree on the bank. In this season of bright grass, the northern harrier nests unseen, in unplowed fields nearby. Thin-leaved willow green unfurls as the tree drops catkins, while tiny warblers with yellow flecks perch and flutter among the branches, like leaves. I follow a willet and his mate along the road flying from fencepost to fencepost in pursuit of the creek ahead. In the Camas Prairie a year ago, I watched as four young willets trailed their mother through the grassy dark waters and I wonder if this pair nests there too.
I walk Silver Creek on a summer afternoon, watching canoeists sliding through dark waters. The creek is dotted with fly fisherman perched along the edges and in the midst. I have swum Silver Creek in summer, my body feeling both the hot summer sun and the cold spring water as it was caressed, sometimes entangled by the thick grasses. On another morning, a friend marvels in the cool dawn at a willow flycatcher repeatedly capturing his prey on the wing while we stare entranced through our binoculars. As a Virginia rail, hidden in the brush, buzzes, a tiny marsh wren alights on a cattail, and a blue dragonfly soars and dips overhead. I realize the creek is alive-with insects, birds and people.
I walk Silver Creek in fall, noticing how the oxbow bend turns inward, even as life on the edges does the same. The season changes, marked by the disappearance of barn swallows, nesting under the bridge, that have been catching insects above the waters since early spring. A muskrat pokes his nose above the water, and then submerges, leaving only ripples. On another journey, a moose and her calf rise slowly from the next bend, while I, unobserving, pass by and my daughter runs up to tell me about them. Maybe my opportunity will come another day.
2nd Place, Student Writing Division: My Daily Shower by Eric Williamson
Three thirty in the afternoon, the bell rings and I make a beeline to my car. As soon as I get home I throw my two Golden Retrievers in the back of my car and head for the Big Wood River. As soon as I park I open the tailgate and the dogs bolt for the river like the car is on fire. When my slow two legged body finally reached the river the dogs are up to their chests in the cool clear waters of the Big Wood. I select the proper stick, not too long to whack me in the knees but not too short to get lost in the current. I pick it up and they look at it like it is the biggest juiciest steak they have ever seen. I give it a gentle toss to the center of the river and they both explode, all that is left are geysers of white water and glimpses of golden fur through the turmoil. The geysers consume the stick then start moving towards me; about half way back they become distinguishable figures once again. They emerge sopping wet from the water wrestling each other for the stick. One wins the stick and brings it to me while the other returns to the river for a head start. The stick is dropped at my feet, immediately followed by a shower of river water flung higher then you could ever jump. I pick up the stick again and the process repeats itself. Twenty throws later I am ready to go but the dogs don’t show any intentions of leaving. I have to coax them to the car. Once home they lie down and rest for about two hours. What a great way to relax and unwind after a long day. |
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