 |
| photo credit: http://www.countrybirder.com/EasternBluebird.html |
Sometimes when I am outside my eyes are buried in a book. Sometimes I realize what a wasted opportunity this is.
Last evening while dining on my patio I looked up from the printed page to see a bluebird alight on the top of a shepherd's pole at the far end of the yard. He sat for a moment, surveying the grass, then fluttered down to grab something in his beak. Back to the top of the pole he flew with his prize. His indigo feathers were a startling contrast to his rust-colored breast. A hum to my left brought my head around in time to see a tiny hummingbird stop at the feeder over the door before buzzing the petunias in the hanging planter. There was a sudden clamoring of crows above the treetops. A change in the direction and strength of the evening breeze rippled the veiled walls of the patio screen. A neighbor child screeched. My supper cooled and the pages of my book fluttered while life lived itself out all around me.
The landlord's cat slinked past me, a baby chipmunk dangling from his jaws. Death amidst life, as always. And to think I'd had my eyes buried in a book.
 |
| post-dinner smugness |
