Neighbors

 

(Photo by Jeff Hall)

Yesterday morning the windows were all clouded from the heat and humidity and rain overnight, like stepping close to a mirror after a hot shower. On one screen a slug was making its way from top to bottom, on the window that looks out onto the front yard something had been writing asemic poems on the glass. Between sips of coffee and talking to Ursula I saw a movement like a shifting shadow outside the window, hopping along the sill. I picked up Ursula and peeked out. A Carolina Wren zipped from the window and into the tree. It hopped and flitted from branch to branch but always turning to look back at me, holding the blind cat behind the fog. Finally, it went up higher and then sang its clear loud song, a song that seems too brash for such a small being. A song I hear often and can identify and that makes me madly search for the body that sings it. And here it was, right outside the window, and the voice comes from this lovely wee bird. And it looks at me, holding my blind cat, the cat that is focused on the song, her tails twitching. The bird sang one more chorus and then disappeared into the morning. Soon after when we went outside for our walk I could hear the rusty brown wren singing far off in another yard as the day heated up.

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