Salamander Eggs

I reached in and touched them, ever so gently, one life greeting another, though I’m not about to tell you what I said.

The absence of leaves on the reflected tree branches above and the abundance of fallen leaves in the water hint at the season, but the amphibian egg cluster proves it. March 6, 2024

Forty degrees and partly overcast skies. A muddy path. A murky pond.

A memory and a mission.

Salamander eggs.

Gelatinous clusters.

I just really needed to see them.

And I thought I might know where to find some.

From what font do these strange urgings suddenly arise?

Salamander eggs? Seriously?

I suppose I’ve been hearing, then saying yes to these sorts of calls my whole life.

Yesterday was no different.

I don’t intend to start shutting this habit down now.

I had a hunch I’d be able to walk right to them,

then did,

though... it’s got to have been at least thirty-five years.

Some people clip coupons and know where you can save fifty cents on a four pack of toilet paper. Others can tell you which Goodwill store has the best dish selection and which promises the best chance at a nice, used Pendleton plaid. And others yet will regale you with sparkling reviews of the five hottest new restaurants or live music venues in your city. We all have our things.

I can tell you where to see wild salamander eggs in early March,

and where to pick wild mint along a wild river in July.

What you choose to do with these offerings is entirely up to you.

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The shadow, no, actually it was the dark reflection, the trunk of an immense, steadying tree I leaned upon that allowed me to peer beneath the mirrored surface, to see the submersed mass of eggs hovering, almost weightless above scores of fallen leaves and a peppering of algal silt in murky waters.

And yes, of course I reached in and touched them, ever so gently, one life greeting another, though I’m not about to tell you what I said.