The Lonely Watcher

I see her nearly every morning standing still as a statue near the edge of the creek, wearing a straw hat and a dark sweater that stretches down to her knees. She's always in a different location, sometimes standing on the bridge above the creek, and sometimes down by the water's edge,as if wanting to see things from a different perspective. Once, on a cold morning, I saw her exhale a long puff of smoke, and glanced down to see a cigarette hanging between her fingers, the only time I saw any sign of life. What draws her to this morning ritual of stillness? What treasures are worth her undivided attention? I imagine she could speak of the hummingbird hovering just above the creek, and the turtle sunning on the log, and the burrowing owl staring out from the bank. She could tell us about the smell of the bottlebrush and the eucalyptus tree, and the call of the mourning dove, and the buzz of the bumblebee, and a thousand other things that we miss in the rush and the noise of our busy world.