The shift of plans through rain
Jul. 2nd, 2010 11:06 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
marinessThe plan for today was to wake early and head out, camera in hand, for a photo tour of the West Orange Trail, but this flopped, thanks to a) not waking up early and b) a surprising amount of rain, which has drained off to a slow ongoing trickle, with weather websites disputing just what may happen next - more trickling, or the full huge onslaught of flooding downpours that hit last night in raging glory, turning the lake an odd shade of green again.
About this lake, the fourth largest in Florida: for years, it was filled with birds and fish, and was known as one of Florida's best freshwater fishing spots - some of the old houses around here are actually old fishing cabins or winter homes for fish lovers who would flee the rain and heat each year. Later, the lake was surrounded by heavy, but heavy farming, and now, the water is filled with phosphorus, which has been absolutely awesome for algae, and not quite as awesome for, say, oxygen, and thus less awesome for fish. Also, pesticides, turning the place into a Superfund site. It's a remarkably shallow lake, too - never deep, the bottom is now covered with muck from farmwater discharge, and the entire lake averages about 5 to 6 feet in depth. Where once you could look over the side of a boat and see gleaming clear water teeming with fish - well, now you see swirls of blue and green and brown, all hiding what might lie beneath. When I leave, I never quite know what color I'll return to.
None of this has stopped the alligators, who swim back and forth in the shallow depths.
We see signs of hope, on this side of the lake - where orange grove farming wasn't quite as phosphorus and pesticide laden, and where houses and fishing cabins stood instead of farms. Two great grey herons have built a nest right near the complex, and I think a pair of red-winged blackbirds have joined them this year. Flocks of ibises arrive regularly to hungrily gnaw on insects (we could use more ibises), and I've seen more than one hawk and eagle float over the lake, hungrily eying the few fish below. And, of course, the gators.
Today it is shifting between grey and brown. I sometimes imagine that it's whispering tell me your stories, your stories...and imagine that it wants either something dripping with horror or something bright with laughter. Naturally, I'm writing neither just now. The lake is just out of luck.
(Yes, I anthromorphize lakes and trees and such. Doesn't everyone?)
Nothing to do with the above, really, but rooibos chai was meant for rainy days. And I am so not putting too much half-and-half into it, no matter what you may be hearing or thinking.
About this lake, the fourth largest in Florida: for years, it was filled with birds and fish, and was known as one of Florida's best freshwater fishing spots - some of the old houses around here are actually old fishing cabins or winter homes for fish lovers who would flee the rain and heat each year. Later, the lake was surrounded by heavy, but heavy farming, and now, the water is filled with phosphorus, which has been absolutely awesome for algae, and not quite as awesome for, say, oxygen, and thus less awesome for fish. Also, pesticides, turning the place into a Superfund site. It's a remarkably shallow lake, too - never deep, the bottom is now covered with muck from farmwater discharge, and the entire lake averages about 5 to 6 feet in depth. Where once you could look over the side of a boat and see gleaming clear water teeming with fish - well, now you see swirls of blue and green and brown, all hiding what might lie beneath. When I leave, I never quite know what color I'll return to.
None of this has stopped the alligators, who swim back and forth in the shallow depths.
We see signs of hope, on this side of the lake - where orange grove farming wasn't quite as phosphorus and pesticide laden, and where houses and fishing cabins stood instead of farms. Two great grey herons have built a nest right near the complex, and I think a pair of red-winged blackbirds have joined them this year. Flocks of ibises arrive regularly to hungrily gnaw on insects (we could use more ibises), and I've seen more than one hawk and eagle float over the lake, hungrily eying the few fish below. And, of course, the gators.
Today it is shifting between grey and brown. I sometimes imagine that it's whispering tell me your stories, your stories...and imagine that it wants either something dripping with horror or something bright with laughter. Naturally, I'm writing neither just now. The lake is just out of luck.
(Yes, I anthromorphize lakes and trees and such. Doesn't everyone?)
Nothing to do with the above, really, but rooibos chai was meant for rainy days. And I am so not putting too much half-and-half into it, no matter what you may be hearing or thinking.