A bird-y morning

Roused from a deep sleep I didn't realize I was in (I somehow thought I was already awake, but found myself wandering the house in a daze) by the screech of the smoke alarm going off.  Finally I convince myself that it is our house, so get up, put on clothes I can go outside in, and grab a phone and ID, and go out to see if anything is actually burning.  I shall point out that no one else felt the need to get up and evacuate.  Nothing.  It goes off a few more times.  I finally find a roommate to consult, he says he knows about smoke alarm installation, and then when it goes off again, pulls down the stand-alone detector from the stairwell.  When I come back later, it goes off again.  So that wasn't it.

Even though I'm running a sleep deficit (too hot to sleep), I decide to go out to the lake to get some writing done.  I head toward the bleachers, but am drawn to a quiet, empty, shaded bench instead.  Moments after I sit, a light figure flashes into the trees nearer to the water.  "Hawk", I think.  Banded tail, Cooper?  I begin to write, a breeze kicks up and rattles the leaves.  The bird shoots out from the tree, I hear the splash on the water, it circles low to return to the same perch, talons empty.  An osprey.

I write two pages, the saplings bend toward the water from the breeze.  I decide to move on.  In an opening, I stop to gaze out at the water.  A family of geese drifts into view, pausing to feast on some algae, then swims over toward me, and comes ashore to my right.  The adults look askance at me, then waddle off to graze on grasses.  I walk on.  Lots of people setting up picnics and picking out sites for the day.  I hear drumming, look up to see if there is someone playing; realize it's actually a woodpecker (Hairy, I think) drumming on a snag in search of insects.

It flies, spooked by a dog, and I move on.  The lily pads are in bloom.  Silent.  A month ago, the patches were full of the thrashing of massive carp, who now, done with spawning, lurk at the bottom of the lake.  Everywhere, swallows circle and dive.

I return later, relief from the heat of the house.  The geese drift gracefully.  Mama ducks guard over new hatchlings.  Small trout leap for bugs.  The osprey call out unseen, in a series of chirps, but don't leave the trees.  Small insects gather by the thousands, swirling up in columns higher into the sky than I can make out.  Darkness falls, people return home, and the day dwellers go to rest.