I walked down to Monroe Street yesterday to run a few errands. It was one of those forehead-slapping “oh yeah, so not a Christian” moments, because several of the places I wanted to go to were closed tight as drums. Did return my library books and fill out the pantry via Trader Joe’s, though, so it was not a write-off.
(Trader Joe’s is a weird place. It’s too mainstream for a real crunchy-granola store; there’s no bulk buying, and the product selection is disturbingly tame. But at the same time, it’s too vegetarian-friendly and self-conscious for a regular grocery store. I wish the South Side had a real crunchy-granola store, but I really should shut up and be happy about all the great ethnic groceries.)
Half a block or so from the turnoff to home, I saw a muskrat trundling around in someone’s front yard. They’re smaller than you’d think from seeing them in the water; my monkeybrain tends to fill in more ’skrat than there actually is when I see one swimming with just its nose and tail visible. Poor ’skrat scuttled underneath a parked car to escape me, so after peering underneath because I just couldn’t help myself (I think they’re cute, okay?) I kept on going.
This morning, in sharp contrast with last week’s blustery fit, was so calm that the bay was reflective as glass, and the busy muskrats left yards-long wakes behind them. Playing my standard game of spot-the-loon, I saw one sailing serenely as only a loon can in mid-bay, and another fishing closer to Brittingham Park.
The fishing loon saw the sailing loon, and flapped-and-paddled its way across the water not serenely at all toward it. I stopped, not sure what to expect—loons are impossible to tell apart by sex at a distance, so if those were two males, a territorial battle was in the offing.
But no. Fishing loon settled its wings carefully, and then the loons ducked their heads at each other a few times in that shy courtship ritual they have, and sailed peacefully on in opposite directions.
And I went on my way too, smiling.
