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
