Life near the Zagyva


Every day, when I bike or walk to school along the Zagyva, something catches my attention: a blackbird’s song, a stork, a row of fishermen, a family of ducks, a red poppy among the dandelions. There’s a fisherman in the picture above. The bridge is the one I cross to do my basic shopping; I just walk across the river.

Right now a storm is starting; here’s the balcony view from just a few minutes ago. I have the balcony door open and am enjoying the sounds of thunder. Minnaloushe is relaxing on the coffee table.


There’s a strange simplicity about life (along with a complementary complexity) when you don’t really know the language that is spoken around you. On the one hand, you walk in beauty. On the other, you know you’re missing a few fathoms of reality. I am understanding more and more, but it’s like taking an eyedropper to the sea. I would rather have the eyedropper and sea, though, than one without the other, or neither.

But certain things, like the strutting of a stork, speak their own language, leaving us poor humans agape in equality.


Image comment: Some of the trees in the first picture appear in the blog’s banner photo. A month ago they stood in water. Now they are grounded and green.


I saw a storks in three towns in Hungary and Slovakia. At least two of the three nests had babies, which were difficult to photograph. Only rarely did they poke their heads out, and only once, in one blurry photo, do they show up. But I took a few videos too, and they appear in this one. Why does this little clip give me joy? It has to do with the many sounds, the watchfulness of the parent stork, the squirminess of the young, the messy grandeur of the nest, and the entire scene. Also, I stood there for a long time; when something gets you to pause like that, it makes a mark on you. Even the pausing makes a mark.