"Train your eyes on the wreck & wiggle through the cracks." Richard Buckner
Glorious sun, cool damp air, I can almost feel the green things surging up toward the sky. Good morning, bird in the bush, good morning, hand holding the pen, good morning tires on pavement, the good green earth, the nurturing soft air, the strong sunlight.
Everyone, meet Juneberry.
Juneberry, here is your adoring public, your blue sky, your home and mine.
I feel gratitude for your presence, glad to share your beauty with passersby, and your ripe berries, when you bear them, with all takers. (As long as they have feathers not fingers.)
Continued bird research reveals that there is a family of Cooper's hawks in the neighborhood. They nest in the tall elm on the boulevard next to Doc's house. I watch them flap-flap-swoop as they carry sticks and long ribbons of stems back to the nest. Finishing touches.
Almost daily I see wild turkeys browsing in the grass between the river and Hwy 5, or spot Great Blue Herons sailing majestically high over the river gorge, or watch eagles and hawks gyring circles far above us.
Whatever else I may be thinking is interrupted by happiness.
When I'm on the first entrance ramp of the day I power down the window to hear the endearing churrr of the red-winged blackbirds nesting in the small marsh nestled between roads. A sound that makes my heart squeeze, the physical feeling that translates as love.
On the second entrance ramp of the day, I again lower the window, at the spot beloved of hungry wild turkeys. Some days there are two or three toms there, lording it over the hens--huge and grand, displaying their splendid tails, their puffed-out feathers.
Whether I actually see them or not, I've taken to calling, "Good morning, turkeys!" out the window as I round the curve. Then I giggle.
It makes me happy.
I am trying to gather up the feeling of spring, all its this-ness and now-ness, and hold it inside so I don't have to lose it.
But as anyone who's ever lost anything or anyone dear to them knows, this doesn't work. Anticipating loss is the opposite of now-ness. It gets in the way of living. I know this, but I resist letting go of it. It isn't protecting me, I must patiently tell myself.
Do I listen?