Love In The Treetops
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A friend, a man who has been single
for a number of years, wrote to say that he’s been feeling down in the
mullygrubs. He said he’s probably just feeling lonesome. He’s considering
jump-starting a romance, even though he thinks he might be headed the wrong
direction.
I’m not one to sneer at romance in
any form. My inclination, and I suspect my friend does likewise, is that when I
meet somebody I tend to color in the blank spots to fit the pattern I want to
see. That’s never worked for me yet.
Since I live in such a place and in such
a way that I don’t meet available men, romance is a moot point. But I have to
confess that the last few days I’ve been wishing—well, I don’t even know how to
form my wish.
This vague dissatisfaction began
while I was sitting out on my back patio in the shade of the jacaranda tree,
watching birds.
Ah, the birds. The birds of
Jalisco look like flowers in the treetops—splashes of
color, reds, yellows, oranges and blues. I can, and do, watch them for hours.
Which is exactly what got me into this slump.
Instead of celebrating their beauty,
I noticed the birds are all in pairs. Hims and hers. All of them. That’s not possible.
There’s got to be extras. Old maids. Hermits. Curmudgeons of the feathery
variety. I’m not seeing them.
When I do spot a single bird,
sitting on a wire, chirrup, chirrup; in swoops a mate, and shameless behavior
begins. They don’t have to flaunt it, do they?
The lovebirds are the worst offenders. No wonder I feel
lonely. These are quail doves, according to my Mexican bird book, smaller than
our mourning doves, with a prettier coo, and entirely lacking in inhibitions, which
is why I call them lovebirds.
There is another bird, quite
handsome, that has a call that sounds like a wolf whistle. I kid you not. First
time I heard it, I almost sprained my neck, twisting around to see from whence
it came. I hadn’t heard a wolf whistle in forty years. So, it wasn’t meant for
me; still, I thanked Senor Bird. At my age, I take it where I can get it.
Critters provide me unending
entertainment. If flower petals had wings, they’d be butterflies. Like the
birds, butterflies display an amazing array of color combinations. The bed
sheets, not their official name, are back.
I’ve seen four of them so far. Up close, these huge white butterflies
have the most delicate black edging, like lace.
Lizards of unending sizes, colors
and types, iguanas, bunny rabbits (cotton-tail variety), squirrels; every
critter is paired. You’d think the Ark just came to rest on the mountaintop,
the door dropped down, and two by two, the animals march off to do what they do
in the Spring-time.
I don’t resent my avian friends.
Envy, yes. Resent, no. How could I resent creatures which so enthusiastically greet
the morning?
At first light, before the actual
sun is even a hint on the horizon, the many-membered chorus of birds begins to
sing, each individual song full-throated, top volume. This musical cacophony,
like an orchestra tuning instruments, goes on for about forty-five minutes. Out
of this variety of voices, don’t ask me how, beauty emerges.
Amazingly, as soon as the sun, the
tip of the red ball, peeks over the horizon, the chorus segues into silence, a
holy time as the sun rises. Once Sol is topping the trees, individual species
begin their daily chores, a different music. Birds begin to feed, to flit, to
flirt.
If nothing else, it would be nice to
be able to turn to another person over cups of coffee and say, “Ah, the birds
are at it again.”
But, wait. This is unbelievable. A handsome
yellow bird, all shades of yellow from pale to vivid with greenish hues at the
edges of his wings, one of the many Warblers, just landed on my windowsill,
cocked his head and spoke to me. Flirted, actually. I’m out of the loop, but I
do remember flirting. Oh, the songs. Oh, the sweetness. He winked. “Come with
me Toots. I’ll show you a good time.”
I shook my head. “It won’t work,” I
told him. Cultural and language differences notwithstanding, I can’t but
imagine his shock and horror when he discovers all my pillows are filled with
feathers.
Sondra
Ashton
HDN: Looking
out my back door
June 15,
2017
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