The grass seed farmers have started cutting their fields. The summer scent of drying grass is intense this morning, like childhood and death in one divine breath.
The streets were so quiet during my run at four-thirty, it seemed the houses were all empty.
I wonder how many times the world has ended today; I wonder how many times it will begin.
While I was watering the hanging basket, the male junco came down from the birch and landed on the top rung of the plant stand, no more than two feet away. He was more vocal this morning, and with good reason: I noticed a rustling, and then a baby popped up and flew toward the birdbath, coming to a surprisingly soft landing in the deep grass about fifteen feet from the nest — a reminder that I’ve had many dreams that have ended that way.
More movement: it appears now that both parents are trying to coax the remaining little ones out of the nest.
There have been some visits from curious chickadees . . . .
Another is out, and is hopping on the ground after the father on its first foraging lesson . . . .
The third is fluttering around in the basket . . . .
And now the nest is empty.
Late yesterday evening, we saw a baby robin waiting silently under one of our moss-covered concrete benches, which, with weathering and age, have taken on the look of old gravestones. Appropriate in this case: the baby died during the night — of hunger? disease? loneliness? fear?
July 16, 2022
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Categories: A Few More Scratches