Monday, June 26, 2017

‘Oh no, no, no, you don’t,’ I hear Agatha, above the Semi-Secret garden, say.
     I turn to see a flutter of rust, high in the Cherry tree there, and down Agatha swoops from its branches into the Garden.
     ‘Steven!’ she calls.
     I am already at the gate, letting myself in.
     ‘Your boy ...’ and by this Agatha means, of course, Peter Pan. ‘Your boy is snooping where he ought not to snoop.’
     Being a Thrasher, Agatha is something of a recluse, to whom the Semi-Secret garden, with its high Privet hedge made for the perfect place to home. Her chicks tend to grow brave before they grow strong, often venturing from the nest able only to fly enough to keep them from dropping to the ground like a stone. There they hop about under Agatha’s watchful eye until they can take fully to the air.
     Peter Pan is indeed between the flowers, with his nose to the ground. I would guess on the trail of a rabbit, but Peter Pan is young and not one to discriminate when it cuts to the chase.
     ‘Peter Pan!’ I call, and he comes, taking his time, on a path of his own devise, tromping and stomping and wagging his tail.
     ‘Gads,’ Agatha says, ‘What that boy does to your flowers.’
     I sigh in agreement. 

     ‘If only he was half as considerate as your chicks, Agatha.'
      It’s best to pay Agatha a compliment or two after ruffling her feathers so.

       We wish her a good day then, Peter Pan and I, and behind us close the gate.

Thursday, June 22, 2017

“Peter Pan?”
    When I wake and leave the bed, Peter Pan takes my place. He curls into the warm hollow that my shoulder makes there, his head on the pillow as mine had been.
      “I have your breakfast,” I tell him, and raise the bowl in which I carry his two eggs, sunny side up. 
      His eyes open just the tiniest bit.
      They close.
      They open.
      They close again. And this final time, remain closed.
     I sit on the bed beside him, place the bowl near to his nose and stroke his pearl white fur.
      He sighs ... a soft snore, a dog’s purr, if you will.
     “I don’t think I’m a morning person,” Peter Pan, in time, confides to me. “I just don’t.”

      No buddy, I don’t believe you are. 


Monday, June 19, 2017

Six halves of eggshell lay on the ground beneath the back porch light, on top of which Carl and Priscilla’s nest resides. 

     “What are those?” Peter Pan asks of the shells. 

   As eggs are quite often involved in Peter Pan’s breakfast, I answer carefully, “I believe the babies have arrived.” 

   Peter Pan wants to see, so I lift him and we count together three bald heads, there inside the fluff of the mudded nest. 

    “Just three,” we hear Priscilla confirm behind us, and before we can turn, she has swooped in and is perched on the porch light with food in her beak for the chicks: something with wings and a great deal of disheveled legs. 

   “I figured that was enough,” Priscilla says, “For my first.” She's a sensible girl, who learned from her mother, who learned the hard way, that five makes for a crowded nest.    

  Hearing her voice, the chicks raise up, wobbling and bobbling, all mouth, their bright yellow beaks opened wide and needing to be grown in to. 

     Peter Pan and I watch as one, two, three the chicks are fed. 

     "Just enough," Priscilla says, and off she flies again. 


Sunday, June 18, 2017

Something had come to perplex William Stevenson.

    Nothing much, as far as perplexing things go. Nothing quite so mystical as how the grub worm will read the story of a tree by boring into its trunk; chewing through the annual rings there, where, like a sort of Braille, are kept a tree’s greatest concerns: tales of drought and deep ice, of seedlings and cool, gray rains. 

    Nothing as unknowable as the depth of the Heavens. Of what perplexed William, he was fairly certain there was an answer. He just hadn’t discovered it yet.

      William Stevenson’s eggs had begun to stick, you see. Stick to the pan. 

     Five days now, he had scrapped them from the floor of his iron skillet, something William could not remember ever having to do, something that frustrated him to no end, and William was not an easily frustrated person. 

   There was a way that William Stevenson liked to eat his eggs, and scrapped from the floor of a skillet was not, that, way.  


Thursday, June 15, 2017

I am in your garden, 
a deep meadow, rich with color, 
Fingertips, as if in water, trace your plantings 
that seem an act of nature so perfectly have they grown, 
gem after gem tied together by humble yet verdant grasses,
and here I stoop to closer see, 
‘The dream was too beautiful to doubt.’ 

These bindings are a vase.

Thoughts while reading 'The Magician's Elephant'

Wednesday, June 14, 2017

There’s no being Faulkner or Flannery with a rubber ball being dropped incessantly onto the hardwood at your feet.

Friday, June 9, 2017

“The children are doing well,” Priscilla tells me, when she has no choice but to sit and can finally talk. “They send their love. They’ve grown.”

        She and her husband Carl have been busy refurbishing the mudded nest atop my back porch light. Priscilla’s mother did it before her and her mother’s mother, too. They were all named Priscilla.    
      Priscilla and Carl are Barn Swallows. Barn Swallows don’t much care for change. Names and nests, they’re passed along, mother to daughter, father to son. 

      They fly south for the winter. Priscilla and Carl have a nest on the porch of another little farmhouse in Chile, near a small town named Talca. There are two children there on the farm, Luis and Anna. 

        Carl is too busy collecting bugs to talk, but Priscilla has laid the first of her eggs and must sit, so she tells me now the news from Luis and Anna. Of their birthdays and loose teeth, the llamas they raise, and of their great-grandfather, Oscar, who sits on the porch near their nest and tells story after wondrous story.

       Priscilla will tell me too, eventually, of their journey. Of the miles and storms and passersby. We have two weeks to talk, a little more, before the eggs hatch and she must gather food as well. Two weeks to fill her, like a postcard, with stories and love to return to Luis and Anna and Oscar, who sit in the warmth of a porch far, far south, waiting.  


Tuesday, June 6, 2017

'Can I be Peter Pan, too,' Pete asked, one night after I had finished reading to him from that boy's adventures. 
'I don't see why not,' I said. 'You nearly are already.' 
'Do I need to be sprinkled with something?' he asked. 
'No,' I said. 'Only if you want to fly away and leave me lonely forever.' 
'You'll be lonely?' 
'Incredibly so,' I told him. 
Pete tilted his head to the left and then tilted his head to the right, a thing that he does when he's thinking on a matter intently. 
'Just the name then,' he said, finally. 'And a jacket, perhaps, that's green.' 

That sounds like a plan, Peter Pan, Peter Pan. That sounds like a plan to me.

Sunday, June 4, 2017

If I was rain I'd fall gently. 
Birds like me better that way. 
I'd leave plenty of room for sunshine, 
because even I prefer blue to gray. 
If I was rain I'd remember
every nest in every hole and tree, 
and fall to the left just a little, 
because there's a little mother and father in me.

If I was rain I'd fall gently.
Gentle is a good thing to be.   

Saturday, June 3, 2017

Sproutings and bloomings, courtings and hatchings, burrowings and nestings, clippings and thinnings, and always the rising of the great green tide. 

Busy is this place called Spring.    


Friday, June 2, 2017

My house has memory, and in its day dreamings speaks the soft scents of buttered pancakes and maple syrup, of hickory fires and bread, fresh from the oven.