Poems by Linda Briskin

Hubris

by Linda Briskin

From Canary Spring 2022

Linda's back garden in the Taddle Creek watershed was once a part of Taddle Creek, and water still occasionally bubbles up. The 25-mile-long Seguin River, mentioned in Hubris, empties into Parry Sound on Georgian Bay. The river's name comes from the Ojibwe word ziigwan meaning "spring."

The early morning sun paints the sky melting shades of orange, red and pink. From the top of the hill, the Seguin River is a sleeping snake. Rising and curling, the mist on the water entices. At the dock, I slip the kayak into the river. It cleaves the water with ease and grace. The paddling is almost effortless, hypnotic, a meditation.

A blue heron—blurred by the mist—stands tall and still, a sentinel. With sudden majesty, it lifts off, wings wide, air filled with the hum of movement. Tag alders clutter the banks, their twisted branches mirrored in the calm river. The reflections beckon, and then shimmer and scatter as I push and pull with the paddle. I breathe in the moment.

A dragonfly lands on the edge of my paddle. Camera ever ready, I capture the tracery of its four wings, and its delicate legs in unlikely balance.

I don’t know the name of this dragonfly. But I’ve always been fascinated with the categorization of Odonata (which include dragonflies and damselflies), originally by the Swedish botanist Carolus Linnaeus in the 1700s.

The Dragonfly Society of the Americas indicates that more than five thousand species have now been identified. A small chart on my fridge lists an arbitrary selection. The dates of their ‘discovery’ a reminder of the long history of human-dragonfly engagement.

Hetaerina titia, Smoky Rubyspot, named in 1773

Calopteryx maculata, Ebony Jewelwing, named in 1805
Somatochlora albicincta, Ringed Emerald, named in 1839

Triacanthagyna trifida, Phantom Darner, named in 1842

Erythrodiplax fervida, Red-mantled Dragonlet, named in 1848

Neurocordulia molesta, Smoky Shadowdragon, named in 1863
Macrothemis inequiunguis, Jade-striped Sylph, named in 1895
Palaemnema domina, Desert Shadowdamsel, named in 1903

The names are evocative, resonating with stories. I like to recite them as a charm against the anxiety of the world, tangling my tongue around the delicious and impossible Latin syllables, delighting in the English lyricism of shadowdragons and jewelwings. Yet I am aware of the self-indulgent tendency to claim ownership of the natural world through naming.

The dragonfly lifts off the paddle and spirals away. The sun climbs in the sky, the mist dissipates. The mystical Otherworld of early morning vanishes. The kayak butts up against an obstruction of woven branches of birch and alders. The river rages against the restraint of this beaver-built dam, mourns lost movement. I hear its plea to be released.

I swing my legs out of the kayak and plant my feet on the shifting bottom of the shallow summer water. Arms in rhythm with the longing of the river, I dismantle the narrowest opening of the dam, weeds thick, logs moss-heavy. Heaving rotting branches unsettles old scum and stagnant pools, and releases a fetid stench of decay.

A flutter of dragonflies. Their elegant wings mesmerize with light-touched iridescence. A green darner lands on my arm—perhaps a sign of good luck. Joined by a Calopteryx damselfly with her blue etching. A small blessing.

Suddenly many dragonflies, flittering. In distress?

I wrench one final branch from heavy sand. Then surging water rushes free. Standing in the river, inhaling the sun,I struggle—with pleasure—to keep my balance. The kayak now passes easily through the new opening.

On my early morning paddle the next day, I discover the dam is rebuilt. The beavers may be ingenious but I’m frustrated with obstacles blocking the smooth flow of the river. I’m frustrated with the beavers taking down so many trees. I’m frustrated that I can’t get my kayak through the dams.

I begin a search for ways to discourage beaver activity. Instead, I chance upon the non-profit Beaver Institute whose goal is to support the beaver’s critical role in creating climate-resilient wetlands. The Institute calls for humans to co-exist with beavers and embrace the indigenous wisdom of living in harmony with nature.

I learn that beavers are a keystone species on which others in an ecosystem depend. Beavers do not kill trees but coppice them and stimulate new growth. They open up the tree canopy and let in the light. The beaver dams create wetlands and an entire food chain for the otters, water shrews, voles, birds, dragonflies and breeding fish. The cool deep pools are sanctuaries for dragonflies who cannot exist in polluted habitats. The beavers share their winter lodges with muskrats and mice. They welcome diversity and enrich the environment. A group of beavers is actually called a family.

I used to see the beavers as giant destructive rats; now I now appreciate their innate commitment to caring for the environment. The contrast between the generosity, ingenuity and reciprocity of beaver families, and the self-interest, rage and violence that permeate human communities is deeply disturbing. I want to be part of a beaver-like family that does not clearcut, build walls and fences to keep others out, and callously pollute. I want to be part of a family that supports community and reveres nature.

I fear the Anthropocene epoch which is marked by global warming, habitat loss, and toxic microplastic particles in the atmosphere and oceans. The numbers fill me with despair—the magnitude beyond comprehension. According to Conservation International, more than seventeen billion pounds of plastic are dumped into the oceans each year—the equivalent of 57,000 blue whales. The Millennium Ecosystem Assessment estimates an unprecedented species extinction rate of twenty-four a day. Our sense of entitlement is destroying the ecosystem.

I am responsible too. With careless arrogance, I treated the beaver dams as an impediment to my desires.

Humbled, I recognize now the reverence of the river for the power of woven branches, birch tangles, stones and sand. I understand the distress of the dragonflies at the disruption of the calm surface of their pond.

The dragonfly a harbinger.

My longing, I realize. Not the longing of the river.