I am on the balcony before it begins. Achromatic darkness,
the sky tangible, reaching back to my outstretched fingers, pressing
on my face. A steady hum of cars, the clack and clangs of the train yard
trill, chirrup, cheep and chur.
Birds with the biggest eyes fly in low light, are first to sing.
Here it is the herring gulls, one in particular starts the day with a long cry
as it orbits overhead, seeking nesting materials it brings back to the eaves.
Robins and wrens join in, house sparrows, and so on until the smallest-eyed
iridescent hummingbirds make their way to my 5th story feeder.
Colors infuse the sky, which has retreated, rounded like a snow globe, containing
all within. I watch and am watched. The tall pines across the way notice when I’m
there, not very Zen-like to care, to hope the rains cease and I will be out, the way
visitors to Denali hope to glimpse the mountain. We don’t always show ourselves.
If only it were enough to love the birds and their chorus, the steady trees
that elevate unfolded leaves and latent buds toward the sun, synthesizing
energy down to the taproot that holds it in place.
My roots live within fragile walls of cell membranes, within my DNA. I am gusted
by wind and whim, tumbleweed, at rest for moments, carried onward, seeds dispersed
in the haphazard way of the unearthed. Why do we long for love untethered
to soil, unanchored by roots, free to walk away?
Aww, honeygirl.
Thank you!