The baby chickadees look just like big chickadees only smaller. They are tiny replicas that flit and flutter in the bamboo that borders our deck.
I spotted one this morning perched on a twig so insubstantial as to bend slightly with his miniscule weight. The little guy made a “chick-a-dee-dee-dee” sound. Only it was higher and thinner than the mature chirp.
How darling are the small critters of creation. They train our eyes on the little things of life.
Photo: 50Birds.com
This little guy and his (her?) brother (sister?) were clinging to the inside of our garage door yesterday. I knew there was a nest in the rafters, had seen the busy mother flying in and out the window, had heard occasional chirps and peeps, but had no idea it was time for the little ones to leave the nest. Why does this surprise me? By now I know how quickly youngsters grow up.
I tiptoed into the garage with my camera, poised for the perfect shot, and … the camera was out of charge. The mama bird was extremely unhappy, too. She chirped an alarm and bounced toward me to do battle. So I came back inside, plugged in the camera and waited.
A couple hours later, this baby was still out and his mama was away. I inched closer, talking softly. The birdie opened one eye and looked at me without fear. I’m not much of a birder, but I think he’s a wee robin. A delicate mess of feathers and beak, he’s like a human baby with a head much bigger than the rest of him. Soon he will leave the garage, as he’s already left the nest. His body and tail will lengthen, his plumage will smooth out. He will be able to fly 36 miles an hour and up to 200 miles a day. He will sing and he will mate. He will take his place in the world.
I was privileged to see him in the beginning.
On days I work at home I watch the house slowly empty. First Celia, early, so early, for high school. Then Tom with bike and helmet. He’ll ride to work today. And next Suzanne, off to her job in Arlington. A parade of goodbyes and then, finally, silence.
I pour myself another cup of tea. I read a few pages from a favorite book. And then I place my fingers on the keyboard, willing the words to come, hoping they will flow smoothly today.
Copper lounges by my side. Partings are hard for him, too. But he doesn’t need to process them.
A walk can be a passage out of time, a way to move from the world of clocks and calendars into a suspension of schedule and duty, so that I attend only to what is under my feet and before my eyes.
Today, reading The Wild Places by Robert Macfarlane, I found a poet’s explanation for why this is so. Macfarlane seeks out wild places, moors and islands and ridges that are remote and dangerous to reach. He plumbs them for their beauty and lessons. In a valley on the Isle of Skye, he finds a sanctuary, “the allure of lost worlds or secret gardens.”
“Time in the Basin moves both too fast and too slowly for you to comprehend, and it has no interest in conforming to any human schedules. The Basin keeps wild time.”
The reason, he reckons, lies in a quotation by a nameless source: “Landscape was here long before we were even dreamed. It watched us arrive.”
Even in the suburbs, the deep creek beds and tall oaks predate our arrival. I seek them out for their separateness and their nonchalance. They put my world in perspective. They keep their own wild time.
This morning’s drive was a return to darkness, and yesterday’s walk was strangely lit. The shadows slanted more steeply and the sun hovered closer to the horizon.
It was surprising for a moment until I remembered we had set our clocks forward. Mornings are inky now and after dinner-walks a distinct possibility. We have taken matters into our own hands. We are living on borrowed time.
The woods awakens, sends green shoots from leaf loafs, muddies ponds with tadpole eggs, raises our hopes — only to dash them in a brisk wind or a sudden chill. At this point, spring is more a whisper than a promise, the slim strong arms of a young girl.
I hold my breath that it will once again unfold.
Photos: Tom Capehart
An early morning walk today revealed an island I’d never noticed before. Hidden, but hidden in plain sight. Hidden only in that from the pond’s shore it wasn’t, at first, clear that the knoll was surrounded by water.
Once I realized what I was looking at I stared more closely at that piece of earth, its small tree and the moss that ringed its banks. How dignified it looked, its solitary state more noticeable in the quiet, gray morning.
An island offers peace and retreat. A stillness that flows from location. More than wanting to be on the island, I wanted to be the island.
Until a few days ago, I hadn’t seen a movie in a theater for months, but it’s time now for my yearly binge. Monday was “Descendants” and last night “War Horse.” If I’m lucky I’ll work “The Artist” and “Hugo” into the next few days.
Thanks to Netflix, I watched “Midnight in Paris” and “Moneyball” at home. I caught “The Help” when it was out earlier this year. And the rest of the nominated films (I’ll never get used to having more than five in the top category) I can live without seeing. Unlike last year with “The King’s Speech,” this year I have no clear favorite. Which makes it more fun.
A film binge is a nice way to see out what is usually (though not this year) the winter doldrums: sitting in a darkened theater, losing myself in the sounds and lights. It’s too early for March Madness. I’ll call it February Madness instead.
Photo: Wikipedia
When we first moved to the Washington, D.C. area from New England, I was surprised at the fall planting of pansies. Won’t they just be clobbered by snow and ice? Isn’t it tempting fate to assume the winter will be warm?
One year I planted ornamental cabbage, the white kind with a sweet lavender center. That was as close as I’ve come to winter plantings.
But this year pansies have flourished. In fact, they’re in danger of being overrun by the early blooming of daffodils and witch hazel. Winter is taking a nap this year.
Our neighbors found a property marker the other day. At first, they didn’t know what it was. Surely it couldn’t have remained hidden almost 23 years. But that is exactly what it was — and exactly what it had done. We looked at our original plats and deeds — and we are now the proud owners of a few feet more prime Virginia clay soil, another 70-foot oak tree. And every fall (the best part), we now must rake and bag hundreds more bushels of leaves.
In other words, we didn’t welcome our new acquisition. And we’ve joked about how long it will take us to turn the lush, well groomed strip of land into a bumpy, grass-bare parcel.
I’m reading a history of Fairfax County and learning how often the same land was deeded twice. Deciding boundaries kept surveyors and courts busy for decades. Sometimes property lines were intentionally ignored, but other times the confusion came from surveyor error. Trees or rocks were used for landmarks — and then the trees or rocks would disappear.
Makes me feel better about our little suburban boundary confusion. And just to think, we settled it without a surveyor or court.
