Thursday, April 9, 2015
All the pretty birds
It is a brilliant day. The temperature has gone up 20 degrees to something Springlike. An occasional cloud is smeared across the sky as if for contrast to demonstrate the blueness. Nothing is budding yet, but the river is full of Spring birds. No great beasts, none of your drama birds, it is all, one after the other, the pretty birds. All the pretty birds.
I am not a fancy birding guide, able to throw out to you advanced and dazzling birder terms like "Cardinal" and "Woodpecker". My on the fly constructed bird names are shared by no one: "Three high whistles and invisible", "The little one who likes to fly with its wings closed", "The metal one with the thin, spear beak". I guess they describe something, but they are not professional. I'm an amateur out walking on the river, writing my blog posts to you in a flurry of mental scribblings that are all long gone again when I sit down to write. Are my invisible, fleeting blog posts that we never get to read here better than the blog posts we do get to read? No, not better, they are just different. They are ghosts winding through these written words, smelling of earth and smoke and feathers, finding their way to you so that, at some time in the future, you will remember reading things here that never happened, that were never written.
You won't quite know what they were, and you will carry them alone.