Photo by Martha McLemore, 2009Day broke earlier for me than I wanted this morning, but I'm glad now that it did. I'm the only one up in the house at this hour, except for the two remaining cats (one died this past week - hit by car) and I'm enjoying this patch of time all to myself.
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We had an unseasonably warm (HOT!) day yesterday that was still smothering us last night when I finally dragged myself to bed. Usually, it is too cool around here to have the windows up at night until mid-May, but both windows in my room were open and the bed was stripped down to just sheets. Felt like July, outside and in, all night.
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One advantage to being up this early is that most of the sounds coming through the back door, near where I have my computer, are sounds of nature, very little of humankind. It is too early for the competing carillons in the nearby arboretum and the church up the opposite block to be playing. There is hardly any auto traffic in the street, and the little boy who lives two houses down (and squeals his words at an ear-piercing decibel level) hasn't gotten up yet.
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Breakfast aromas of bacon, coffee and either pancakes or waffles, perhaps french toast, come wafting in on the light breeze that popped up suddenly, then died just as quickly. The stomach-teasing aromas linger behind, stirring the Gastric Beast from its slumber.
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"Feed me," it rumbles. "Feed me now!"
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Later, dude. I'm busy right now.
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"Fee-e-e-e-d me-e-e-e-e, feeeeeed meeeeeeeee," it rumbles in decreasing tones. The Beast goes to its time out corner and fumes, its nose sniffing up the last of the breakfast odors. Rumbly, rumbly, rumble. feeeeed meeeeee, feeeeeed. meeeeeeee.
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Instead, I feed the cats, love on them as much as they will allow, then let them out for their morning constitutional. One of these Sundays, I think I'll follow them on their jaunts, just to see what me boy-os get up to outside.
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There were lots of birds already chirping when I awoke at first light this morning. Now the second shift has arrived, and the day workers, each arrival throwing his and her song into the mix. Such splendiferous singing, a joy for the ears! Even the cats sit still and listen, though for different reasons, I'm sure.
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Enter, stage left, from the arboretum, a yearling crow. He takes his position in the red oak behind the carport and, at the unseen conductor's prompt, lets loose with a ragged "Ca-a-w!"
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Cats' heads jerk in Crow's direction, their ears all atwitch, like rotating radar antennas, seeking out the deep space pings of distant stars.
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The smaller, more melodious birds pick up the next note in their 'Ode to Daybreak' concerto without missing a chirp. Several bars along, and Crow chimes in again.
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"Ca-a-a-wk!"
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The chorus resumes, punctuated at regular intervals with Crow's ever more raspy croaks. I am reminded of the Anvil Chorus from Verdi's Il Trovatore. Only, the chorus is in a never-ending loop of song and croak, song and croak. I am loving it, every note, the solitude, the fresh air, the wonder on the cats' faces as they look from one part of the chorus to the other - the lone crow atop the oak.
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I walk to the door to hear better, but my motion startles the cats, who leap up from their seats under the shrubs. This, in turn, startles the multi-bird chorus, who shut up instantly and fly off for safer yards and shrubs. Only the Lonely remains but he, too, stopped singing.
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Oh, shoot! Bumbling human has messed up things again! (Long, melancholy sigh escapes my lungs.)
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As I stand in the doorway, I notice that violets have sprung up and bloomed overnight. Violets! One of my favorite flowers! My back yard is almost covered in them, just like Mardy's yard.
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Ah, yes. Mardy. I am called Crow because of Mardy, a dear departed friend. But that's a story for another time.
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The Gastric Beast is roused by another sweet-smelling breeze, and this time will not be denied. Time to give it something to eat (raisin toast with cream cheese) before it begins to gnaw the walls of my stomach. I hate when that happens.
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But first, I will pick some violets.
(c) 2009 Martha McLemore
22 comments:
Violets, and that lovely breakfast. Yum.
Zhoen: Yum, is right. Daughter brought home the raisin bread from a local bakery. Nice thick slabs of fruit-loaded bread, the scent of which intensified with toasting and spread all over the first floor of the house.
Yum in the tum and yum in the nose.
:)
I'm up earlier than usual, and now after reading this and seeing your lovely photo of your breakfast which I can almost smell, I must have a bite of toast and cantaloupe to go with my latte.
I love you post so much I may have to run through my morning which has not been half so lovely as yours. And we are having a strange spring too--too hot, too cold, too wet today for any outside work, wet dog in the house is not the best of morning scents.
toast, coffee and the quiet morning sounds.....now thats the way to start the day, jack c
Ah, tea and toast on a weekend morning.
Bliss.
I often get up early on a morning at this time through to the early Autumn - sorry - Fall.
You feel as though you have the world to yourslef at that time.
A lovely evocative post.
I ADORE raisin toast with cream cheese. What a great way to start the morning.
Jack:
Yes, it is, and I'd like to do so more often. So nice that I was able to this morning.
:)
Utah: I'll see your stinky wet dog and raise you two stinky wet cats...yuck!
I'll be glad to have the weather settle down. This see-saw temperature thing is aggravating!
AWB: Having the world to myself is what I like most on mornings like today.
I like a good, malty Assam. What is your favorite tea?
:)
Maria:
It is awfully good, isn't it?
Did you plant anything yet? I'm holding off mowing my yard for as long as I can so as not to cut down the violets.
:)
Breakfast did indeed look very enticing and the violets in their little container are lovely. I keep african ones myself that bloom year round.. not as sweet as the outdoor ones but they help during the long rains.
Years ago I had a dog who made his daily rounds (long before leash laws and scoopers) in cities like Toronto, Montreal and Vancouver. I never followed him but there were a few times when I found him after overnights in a female's back yard. You see he had this perky white flag tale that gave him away when he tried to hide.
Occasionally I twitch – a term of abuse used by the media (all of ‘em) about people who watch birds for pleasure. I know from previous posts your blogonym was not assumed casually and I feel I should add my two penn’orth.
From this side of the binoculars crows are great flyers, not flashily indolent like the red kites we recently saw in Wales but gliding to save energy, flapping once-twice to get the job done, folding their wings without fuss, taking up a stance on a branch, then regarding the world beadily, their eye on the main chance. Businesslike birds dressed for office work if necessary. But there’s more. Under a BBC story titled “Crows show they are not birdbrains” there’s the following:
“British zoologists were astonished when a captive crow called Betty fashioned a hook out of wire to reach food. It is the first time any animal has been found to make a new tool for a specific task, say Oxford University researchers.They believe the bird shows some understanding of cause and effect.”
The story dates back to August 2002 so you’re probably aware of what your British sisters are up to. Personally I’m offended by the phrase “some understanding” and were I invested with unearthly powers I’d like to interview the journalist about his/her understanding of cause and effect. This has got absolutely nothing to do with your post but that’s because I’m especially unobservant at the time of day you refer to and my breakfast (a dull, repetitive event) is not taken until 1 pm. However I felt you needed to know all this and I now exhort you to go forth and fashion a tool.
Hi Martha
I don’t think I have ever heard a chorus of early morning bird calls so delightfully described before and certainly not likened to that of the splendid Anvil Chorus.
In fact it caused me to switch over immediately afterwards to the actual music I have stored on a noteworthy composer and listen to that piece again. I think (with a bit of imagination) I could envisage what you mean with some rather spirited chirping to begin.
Best wishes.
Sorry to hear you lost a Puddy. Our companion animals are a great lesson in the fragility, beauty, and transience of life.
What a laugh I had reading about your crow concert! Thank you.
Beautiful. I love the picture you paint with your words, Crow.
I am so sorry for your loss.
I loved reading about your morning. Sometimes it's just so wonderful to be alive and present.
Susan:
I had a dog once that thought if she put her paws over her nose when she crouched that I wouldn't be able to see her, but she forgot about her tail wagging back and forth like a flag flapping in the breeze.
She always looked surprised when I'd look into her eyes and say, "I can see you, you know."
:)
Friend BB:
You have a good understanding of the intelligence of crows, seems to me. Crows are, indeed, efficient flyers. When coming to the defense of their fellows, though, they fly like bats out of hell, intent on purpose and fire in their eyes. I would not wish to be the object of such intensity.
I have fashioned tools, BB. One of my favorites is a stone tool I made by knapping a piece of flint with which to scrape round pieces of wood. Although I don't do much woodworking anymore, I treasure my stone scraper. It is crude in appearance, but it 'works well.'
;)
Lindsay:
This young crow seemed to enjoy his part in the chorus. I usually hear the whole crow family early in the morning doing their roll-call from various trees in the neighborhood, but his was the only crow voice that morning.
:)
EcoRover:
I'm glad you enjoyed reading about the crow and his chorus mates. They were fun to hear, too.
:)
Lisa:
Thank you, Lisa.
:)
Catnapping:
And this was one of those mornings that made me feel so good to be a part of it all.
:)
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