Michael Shannon

Cool enough. Just on the edge of too cold. The spring sunlight not quite blue but the translucent curtain filtered gray of a not quite foggy day. All quiet. Just myself and Roy Brower, the dog from Labrador. Both in our outdoor chairs watching. Me the birds, the deep Blue Jays coming in looking for bread crumbs or peanuts. Deigning the bird feeder, the old dinner plate mounted on a post amongst the blood red geraniums, it’s too low for them. They never touch the ground. No, the old plate is for the perching birds. The tiny Towhees and the Crested Tits dainty in their habits. The Western sparrows with their little black and white caps if they are males, the dun colored female only coming down when they hear the “All Safe.”

In the red blossomed Trumpet Vine the married pair of Mocking birds flutter around keeping a sharp eye for the Crow, the Thief of Eggs. The Crows drift along in a stately manner like WWII B-17’s until like Focke-Wolfs, the Mocking birds swoop down to attack.

Down in the lower garden a trio of Ameruacana hens drift in convoy, scratching and rooting for bugs and assorted insects or grubs. From the rear their heads down their tails looking like the high pitched roofs of Balinese Temples I have seen.

Roy lifts his head. Swinging his nose around about, gently sniffing the breeze. Does he smell the delicate perfume of the yellow Angel’s Trumpet blossom, perhaps. The slightly sour odor of Rabbits’ Bush is also on the breeze.

By some quirk of atmosphere there isn’t a sound, not even the usual clapping sound of the big oak tree scraping its leaves.

Roy an I mused about lunch but thought better of it. I stayed in my chair for a good half hour gazing absently at the garden and its parade of birds. The gift of Reverie is a blessing divine, and it is conferred most abundantly on those who lie in Hammocks or drive alone in cars. Or sit in backyard chairs. The mind swims, binding itself to whatever flotsam comes along. To old driftwood faces and voices of the past, to places and scenes once visited, to things not seen or done, perhaps only dreamed.

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