Summer Solstice.

He flew fast and low, following the ribbon of water upstream, shifting the plane of his wings as he found a trail in the wind to parallel the river’s course. The low sun made its slow diagonal attack on the horizon and the late evening visibility was good on the longest day of the year. Alaskan summer solstice dusk is long, languid and lingering and the sun reluctantly seeks the rim of Earth as if the days, seasonally absent of darkness, are too precious to release. The moment one begins to think darkness will arrive Sol’s buoyancy returns and the dimming glow in the northern sky begins brightening again, giving rise to a new day. I sat watching a tundra swan and the host beaver harass each other: neither wanted the other close to their respective mates and young. While sitting I heard the pond’s water gurgle in its escape from the beaver’s new dam and, over the heads of the swan and beaver, I saw the drake coming. I marveled at his skill: his wings rhythmically and metrically stroked the air as he passed, swooping over the dam silhouetted against the reclining light. Then he curved his body, neck, wings and tail like a parachuted air brake, pumped his wings and extended his webbed feet to meet the pond’s surface. His feet became momentary water skis carving a perfect “V” sliding him to his cushion on the pond. Quacking softly, he quickly paddled to a thick clump of grass and vanished behind it. As the ripples of the landing absorbed into the edge of the pond, the perennial Alaskan evening sounds of summer forests, robins, varied thrushes, golden and white crown sparrows, tapping woodpeckers, horned owls and others, played the music of solitude and rest. The odors of the young cottonwood leaves, maturing alder and the moist marsh moss settled my mind and I released my breath quietly so as to bring the moment fully to my senses. Time passed and the creeping celestial glow of the solstice night began to repossess the sky.

“If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, is there a sound?” It’s a philosophical and existential puzzle that goes to the union and separation of physics and perception: where do the physics of vibration and the neuro-psychology of perception begin and end? Separating ourselves from the physics of our experience is possible only analytically. In the spontaneity of experience, philosophical questions often seem trivial and meaningless. The question could be restated for any of our senses. Sitting in places of repose, exposing and opening ourselves to whatever stimulation or relaxation we seek, time is suspended; experience is magnified and seldom is anywhere free of stimuli.

Now the mosquitoes find me, buzzing hungrily. Something stirs in the clump of grass by the pond. Like parting curtains on a central stage, a mother duck’s bill cleaves the grass. She leans over the edge, pushes off and settles herself on the pond. Following closely, several puffs of peeping feathery down emerge through the grass drapery and plop lightly on the water, barely disturbing the surface as they float around her. Finally, the marsh’s screen yields the water skiing drake. He pauses as if counting to ensure all are present and then leads the search for a late snack. Sipping here, tasting there and perhaps thrusting their heads under water, Drake and Hen demonstrate the finding of food. The nest-mates quickly follow suit and, like delicate leaves pushed by a breeze, in a small parade exploring the pond’s misty contour beyond my view, they evaporate. Within ninety days, by September’s autumnal equinox, the powder-puff ducklings will grow to full size, learn to navigate the air and ski the river as skillfully as their father and be capable of cross-continental flight.

The mosquitoes swarm predatorily searching me for unprotected patches of skin. They, like the ducklings, only recently have risen from the organic ooze and mire of the marsh created by the beaver, but already they fly and know how to find a meal. It took me much longer to learn such things. Having crouched for some time, my cramped muscles are ready to move. I stand, scratch several nagging sanguineous dinner sites, and stretch my arms and legs in preparation, like the ducks, to follow the contour of the pond’s shore on my path home for a pre-midnight snack and my waiting bed. With the fronds on the water’s edge, a breeze ruffles my hair and ripples the pond’s surface. My eyes follow its reflecting, twinkling face to the beaver’s dam, and beyond to its burbling ribbon down river. I imagine myself shifting the plane of my wings as I find my trail in the wind paralleling my river’s course. It’s late, but still I stand for a final look before taking to the trail. Like the sun, for me the Alaskan solstice sky’s warm glow and long summer days, seasonally absent of darkness, are too precious to release. But whether or not I acknowledge their passing, the long, languid and lingering days will incrementally diminish, and the sun beckons the beaver pond’s life to begin their trek toward winter.

We follow.

Like the sun, for me the Alaskan solstice sky’s warm glow and long summer days, seasonally absent of darkness, are too precious to release. But whether or not I acknowledge their passing, the long, languid and lingering days will incrementally diminish, and the sun beckons the beaver pond’s life to begin their trek toward winter.

We follow.