This morning I followed the sound of rapid pounding and then birdsong outside just after six. I had recognized the American Flicker but I was curious as to where I might see him. It didn’t take all that long to locate the brown and cream bird with the black throat beard and slashes on its wings and its back. The creamy colored belly was dotted with black circular shapes still slightly visible in the gray of early morning dancing atop the transformer on the electric pole across the alley.
Above it on the cross beam or rather hanging over it, was the tail of what turned out to be a Starling; identified first by its song and second by its shadowy silhouette when it moved along the beam’s breadth.
Neither one of these were any kind of revelation or indicator that the day might transform into something unexpected or special and as it turns out it hasn’t become anything other than a normal August afternoon in Ely. The temperature hasn’t even climbed to 70 yet and my blood pressure seems low and steady. It might just be a normal day. It’s been a while since that’s been the case.
Last night after the Farmer’s Market and a late dinner I sat in the back yard with the cats and the dog and felt the strong breezes blowing without much thought for dry conditions, wildfire or potential lightning storms. I didn’t feel chilly, although it was already trending toward what would be low temperatures overnight of 45 degrees. It felt like summer with a cherry on top; felt like autumn and then a loon flew overhead letting out its keening unmistakable call.
No Air Bosses, no helicopters carrying giant bags of water, no sirens, no smell of smoke. I’m grateful, as I’ve said many, many times, for the tools and professionals that have protected us and continue to protect us and attack these fires at their own peril. Without them I wouldn’t be contemplating the normalcy of normal, the lack of anxiety, the quiet peace of silence.
I feel like I’ve been “on” for so long that it feels unnatural to be “off.” On edge. On point. On alert. On pause. On call. On the ready and the set and the go or close in various mindsets. Off is nice. Off is calm. Off is a good book, a cold drink and a comfortable chair as the sun goes down. It is watching the dog pick raspberries off the canes and the cats chase moths and shrews through the shadows. Off is becoming lost in the cacophonous and not so casual melody of the house wren’s song dropping out of the low branches and through the dense cover of crabapple leaves and fruit hanging above me.
Off is finding a few fun antiques, finding a conversation with a friend at the grocery store about music, off is finding the smell of fresh cut grass and finding a birdie on the first hole of the golf course after a drive that was so straight and long it could’ve only have happened with my brain in “off.” Off is throwing together some Chili-Mac in 15 minutes and finding that after it has cooked for over four hours it is more magically delicious than Lucky Charms. Off is realizing that I’m smiling at something that I’ve only just realized makes me happy enough to smile like when I used to be a kid.
I’m a little off. Again.
