Tag Archives: birds

Being In The World

15 Thursday Jun 2017

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Good morning, world.  It’s my favorite kind of day, when the clouds and humidity put a veil between me and the sun.  I doubt it will rain, but the sky wants me to believe it will. Everything is still.  Leaves on the trees are greener on days like these, allowed to show their true colors instead of being washed out by the sun’s rays.  My prayer plant’s leaves are more erect, they appreciate the softer canopy and lift their leaves in appreciation.  Haze covers the sky and the horizon so I cannot see across the bay.  What I see is only in near focus, not afar.

I woke thinking about something someone said to me long ago.  He became CEO after being plucked from his accounting office to lead the company.  He was variable as the weather, and my feelings towards him was equally variable.  He said something to me, publicly, humiliatingly, that left me with no response, but in these days of living quietly, of reflection, I realized what I should have said just then. It was a learning moment that passed me by.  Some might say I should be grateful for it.  If we are lucky we learn how to accept and rise from our mistakes and be humbled, grateful for the things we endured in the past, that we can develop our selves and become stronger persons.  Meanwhile, we wrestle with the hurt and grief that never leaves us. And that is not wrong.

It’s a morning where the black kids, employees of the building owner, head back from filling up their hands with buckets of paint and cordless drills, singing–not rapping–but singing.  I appreciate their youth, their working in the hot sun, and still maintain a good attitude against it all. I messed with them this morning, and we laughed, and god, it’s just what I needed.

As I write, the lady finch has finally stopped calling.  I’ve been up since dawn, and she hasn’t stopped making that sound, that “chew” or “two” sound, loudly, over and over and over again. I don’t know if she’s trying to protect her nest or keep away a prospective mate. She’s like Mrs. Roper on Three’s Company.  Why did Stanley put up with her? I wished she would go away last year, and that feeling is back again, but then I remember how silent the world is in winter without her.  I often wonder how she survives her passionate, endless “chew” or “two” call, hours on end, without stopping for food or drink?  Finches are tiny things, and I thought for sure I’d find her body in the parking lot by now, done in by fervor and lack of hydration, but she is stronger than that.  As I write this, her calling has stopped. A reprieve for my ears and for her body, too?  Perhaps she’s feeding or drinking fresh water somewhere.  When I stepped outside last night, all was still. No birds. Tree limbs frozen. The world is changing around me and it’s awesome. I can’t decide if I like activity or silence more.

As for this moment, it’s all about discovery.  Who has access to unending energy, bounty, the desire to create vs. those who watch red balloons floating away and make wishes? Meanwhile, I closed all my windows and turned on the a/c because my spirit, the god of war who turns his back on infants who cry incessantly, needs a rest.

Morning Musings

19 Wednesday Apr 2017

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I hadn’t planned on waking with a jolt, but it happens sometimes. I open my eyes to a bright flash, like lightning, but there is no storm here.  Sunrise soon, so I slip into slouchy clothes, add another jacket because the winds are northeast, and you know what that means.  The dog walkers were out trying to be quiet, but their fluffies have one job and they are going to do that job every morning: yip at anything that moves, and that’s okay. By now most of them know I’m not bite-worthy, so they let me scritch their wiry necks and set them on their way.

I stand in the sand with camera phone in hand waiting for the molten orb to rise from the Atlantic, noting the ceiling covered by rows of narrow clouds, adjoined, pink, soon to be yellow then white when the whole thing is done.  I watch the fluffies trot across wind-blown dunes. I see early crab tracks and wonder if they’re sorry they got up too soon.  In the west, a pillar of rainbow over the Hampton bridge.

The laughing gulls were quiet for most of the year, but now that the “skimmer” gulls have arrived, the laughing gulls call constantly. Laughing gulls are more likely to share the breakwaters with the fuller-bodied gulls or tiny plovers who are no threat to anyone.   The skimmers fly by in the mornings but do most of their work of feeding in the evenings, skimming the tideline open-mouthed and faster than a white feathered bullet. Their morning calls are demure compared to the coarse laughing gulls, their bodies are the epitome of sleek, narrow, curved, pale, and far more seasonal. They are white silk arrows flown from heaven, and that seems to piss off the laughing gulls.

There is a tiny bird perched on the dead tree limb outside my window, breast curved and deep. He silently pivots like an unsure weather vane. What is he looking for?

My neighbor says goodbye to her cat on the windowsill every morning; she doesn’t know I see this, and she greets him when she returns before she opens the door.  I met her across the balcony this morning. I said hello, and she “confessed” her ritual. I think she felt like she was caught like a deer in the headlights.  We haven’t spoken but a few words.  I told her, “You should see him when you’re not home. All the parties. Had to call the cops a few times.” one-two-three…. She had no idea what I was talking about, but eventually she smiled and said, “You’re funny, ” and I wished her a great day as she smiled and made her way down the stairs.

Mad Libs was a fun game, and sometimes Jimmy Fallon, the late show host, fills out a Mad Libs form and acts out a scene based on the guests’ words.  I’ve watched Jimmy coax a great many words from his guests, and most of them disappoint me. They’re like me, trying to remember what’s a noun, verb, adjective. Most guest replies are often bland like a primary color wheel, and it informs me more deeply than a silly interview.  This morning I am pleased with Kevin Spacey who, unsurprisingly, immediately, chose wonderful and interesting words.  This matters to me, not so much because I want to win a date with Kevin Spacey, but more because it reaffirms my need for more, my need to be in the company of people who are curious about the world, who know things that I do not. Those who touch the mermaid of me.

A Sensual Morning

13 Thursday Apr 2017

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Sounds. Sleeping with the windows open brings me sounds, or sometimes thoughts, in one window and out the other.  Ghosts of truck tires, distant. A stiff breeze. Silence. I woke to the spotlight in my face, the moon fierce in the window. Damn, girl, don’t you know I’m tryna sleep here? (Me and her got beef, her being a silent witness and all, and I’m not going to stand for it anymore.)  I turn over to begin again.  Silence. A stiff breeze.  He began singing in the dark, an hour before the paler blue comes. He is loud, energetic as he sings the sun, singlehandedly, up from the water and into the sky. My dear friend, I wish you knew more than two lyrics, broken record dawn patrol. That’s all right. You have a job to do, and I’ll not shoo you away.

Sounds. I hear your feet below me pounding the floor as you walk from room to room which is a miracle because my hearing is blurry at best. Perhaps I feel the vibration through the walls, or I just know what to listen for.  Is it too soon to prepare myself for the slam of your door as you embark on another office day? Too soon to prepare my snarky comment, “Have a nice day!” as I watch your back, wet hair plastered to your head, stomping off to your car? Yes. It is too soon. I don’t know if responding like this to someone else’s energy is good or bad. It informs me of my own emotional tendencies, my inability to forgive “trespasses,” and tells me I should send her off with blessings if nothing else.

North wind this morning. I can see and hear the wavelets clearly, the bay scent is strong and clean. Mourning dove plays his reed. A wind-chime tinks. Refrigerator hums. Pick-up trucks throaty exhaust. Finch father calling his little ones for flight lessons today, a happy racket. Sounds like someone striking a toothbrush on the edge of the sink to cast off excess water, one two three.

By now the maintenance people would be power washing the walkways, using the leaf blower to clear off excess beach debris or the lawn edger to manicure the little bits of grass in the courtyard, but not this morning. I have a day to consider my tasks. To do them or not do them, it’s as simple as that, so sayeth Henry Rollins.  To think about another neighbor who surprises me all the time. You never really know a woman, it seems. Or anyone. I probably won’t write down at the beach today in my journal that smells like olive oil (long story) because it’s a little chilly out there, north wind and all. So many things are calling and it’s a blessing to take each one down at a time.

Celebrate Life

01 Wednesday Feb 2017

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Two days days ago I heard, from the eastern-facing window, a sound I wasn’t sure I’d hear again.  A  mourning dove:  oo WHO who who who…. It was the same morning I watched a great cloud of crows heading northwest and wondered why.  I am fairly fixed in this place where I write. The table and the laptop are on the western side of things, and I watched the sun go down sooner and sooner, the air chilling once the sun is out of sight.  I’ve watched the hours lengthen, the sun stays just a tad longer each day though it is still cold outside.

I don’t know what my plants are thinking as this is all going on.  I have one sturdy fellow who sits in a plain, gray ceramic bowl but he’s been growing all year without heraldry.  My wax plant, after I repotted him, went dormant after a while and I regretted messing with his place on the sill, afraid I hurt his progress, but how could I leave him in a small pot when he grew inches by inches, twisting and exploring my bedroom hourly? His energy and exploration scared me a little.

I brought home a prayer plant from a big box store because I needed a plant to put in an empty pot. Since I brought her home, there have been weird sounds in the west room that really had me wondering, was it the pot that was making that loud “snap”or the plant?  I moved the pot to my bedroom sill and the “snap” sound is there instead of the western-facing sill.  The snap sounds tapered off, but I still hear it now and then. The plant is thriving and to my amazement, sent off a shoot that produced a flower.  In February! I am not known for my green thumb. Anyone you ask will tell you if you have an adored plant, don’t let me take care of it, I just don’t seem to have the knack.  But three out of the four are kicking ass.

My wax plant was still during the winter, but two days ago I have seen signs of life:  a new leaf is growing, and one of the tendrils is lengthening.  They are responding to the sunlight whose hours are growing.  I walked around worrying about my green things, asking, “Hey you okay?” I did all that I could but worried it wasn’t good enough, afraid that my ignorance might somehow kill their wonderful presence.

This morning a finch came and sat on the wood scrollwork outside my window. He peeped and I remembered the sound. I also remembered my annoyance at the incessant peeping of three dozen finches that seemed to drown out a decent thought, something I regret and will never allow myself to feel again.  I slowly, quietly stepped outside and saw Mister finch with his Missus on the banister down the way.  They are looking for a place to make a home.  Well come on in, you guys, and tell me what time Spring is coming. We’ll need to celebrate.

Grown, Flown, Gone.

06 Monday Jun 2016

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My apartment complex is two squat rectangles, two floors a piece, painted pretty yellow and accented in teal, separated by two tall, beautiful pine trees in a courtyard.  When I first arrived I could see the beach if I put my head up against the bedroom window, or more easily if I walked out the front door. I like to check on the tide, see if there are whitecaps, is it foggy before I step outside for my morning walk.   The giant flagpole in the marina back there tells me which way the wind is going. When I first arrived it was cold and quiet. Mourning doves were in the trees, and I watched their behaviors, their cooings and comings and goings. I heard the wind when I first arrived, wind in the pines, there is no sound like it. Well.. maybe the sound of “I love you Mom” compares, but I’m not here to compare.

Over the last few days I’ve focused my gaze on the incessant squeaking cheeping chipping peeping chirping of the birds outside my west and east windows. (I keep the windows open constantly because the cross-breeze is required in this warmer clime, and I will not run the air conditioner until I melt, oh hell no.)   O god, for hours, the chirping doesn’t end, frantic chirping like their house is burning down or the world is ending.  They’ve usurped the gentle cooing of my doves.  Alongside this phenomena is the sound of a hydraulic nail gun, metal grinder, and wood sander, because the realtor decided to remove, vertical metal bar by vertical bar, the old handrail and replace it with fancy wooden lattice-looking things. They’re not even halfway done.  The birds begin chirping an hour before dawn, and the nail gun doesn’t stop until dinnertime. I am focusing on the wrong things.

On the east side of my apartment are two trees, trees that have filled out with leaves since winter, and I can no longer see the ocean. Back here is secluded and safe. How do I know this? Because it’s where the mourning doves used to come and land on the shed down below under tree cover, hunkering down and spread out their wings in the sun safe from the osprey who prowls the bay. I’d never seen any of this before.  Out my bedroom window I watched a robin with four of her juveniles conduct a peeping choir, teaching them to maneuver here and here and there in the trees. The male cardinal fascinates me most with his juvenile. He put a worm down in front of his offspring perched on the shed, and she had no idea what to do with it. She hunkered and shivered in front of him, peeping like the world was ending until he finally picked it up and put it in her beak. She hopped a few hops then hunkered down, still, like a fallen brown leaf and he flew away.

I wondered what that would be like, the moment the cardinal comes back with a grub and his juvenile is gone? She’d flown off on her own because there was a sight, a scent, a sound so fascinating she had to see it on her own.  He will fly down with a grub expecting to see his offspring but she will be gone.  And he will put it down and fly back to his nest.  I wish my Dad got to see my nest, this place that used to be quiet but now covered in wings and construction and incessant sunrises.  So this one’s for you Dad, wherever you are.  I’ll try and do my best not be a grumpy cow when the birds are noisy or when it’s bitter cold. I think of you coming out to see the lunar eclipse, as sick and tired as you were, we didn’t even ask, but you came, silent with your hood up. I will try to honor your stiff spine.