The Eyes Have It

     "Did you know the Long-Tailed Duck has orange eyes?"

    What a question! She almost didn't answer, resisted the urge to laugh, or even better, snort. What did she--or he, for that matter--know about the color of duck eyes, or bird eyes, or the eyes of any creature? Of course she didn't know that ducks, long-tailed ducks, had orange eyes.

    She smiled, looked up from the paper, her own blue eyes wide and innocent, and said, calmly, "Of course I knew that. The Long-Tailed duck is known for the distinctly orange hue of its eye, set off by the circle of white down that circles each orb. Quite striking. The pupil, of course, is black, but the orange of the surrounding iris permits it to sense their preferred fish eggs and mollusks--a well known fact."

    She paused, looked up to see if he was still listening.

    He was and was waiting to see where she would go next, amazed, she assumed, at her erudition...and what he called her fantasies, the phenomenon she called her quick response. They had been married too long to fool each other. She was used to his nonsensical questions, and he to her quick answers. Obviously, there was no such creature as the long-tailed duck and who ever got close enough to see the color of any duck's eyes?

    "The orange eye matches the color of the beak, an effective concealment in the arctic tundra it inhabits, a kind of camouflage," she said.

    "Of course," he said, and they went back to the paper, both of them smiling. 

Perfection

     The dog was alone, walking alone, not trotting, but walking across the field with intention, as if it had a specific destination--home after a night out? an impromptu foraging? exploration? It was morning, early morning, a sun-just-rising, field-damp-from-the-cool-night's-condensation time of morning.

    The dog thought it was alone, but I was there too, watching his steady trot, never a run, but it was moving swiftly enough to catch my attention. I, of course, was in my tree, not high up--too early for that, just on the first broad branch, elevated enough to detect movement across the field, but not high enough to see the fence below the rise in the field or more than the roof of my shack.

    A stray dog, I thought. A lost dog? A homeless dog? 

    I considered whistling to it, but didn't want to interrupt the peace of the morning, mine and his, and my whistle, my interpretation of a whistle, was more wispy air than music.

    The dog stopped at that thought, lifted its head as if it heard my inner voice, looked in my direction, then right at me, as if it saw me, really saw me, took me in, contemplated my presence, then continued its steady trot across the field, beginning his day perfectly with a morning baptism in a dew drenched field, as the earth turned, the sun rose, and the glimpse of another silent, solitary creature--me--drinking in the morning was the perfect start to his day...and to mine.

Yes!

Saving Face

    He wanted an apple, which made no sense since it was the middle of summer, well, okay, not the middle, June 5th was more barely summer, no, just summer, the beginning of summer, but still, he wanted a cool, crisp apple, tart...well, at least not too sweet or too sour, which was why was standing at Whole Foods peering at the mishmash of produce, the loud signs proclaiming ORGANIC! Wasn't all food organic, even those tainted by pesticides at their origin? They weren't plastic--they still came from living, organic plants.

In fact he had heard that some supposedly "healthy," good-for-you foods were manufactured in a lab and given monikers like bio-this and probiotic that, the bios and probiotics the result of somebody's chemistry set.

There were apples in the produce section, so he should just choose one or two and keep moving, but he was too frozen in his contemplation of the American apple. He wanted to shout, "Whatever happened to the Red Delicious?" He knew it was a ridiculous question, especially if shouted in a grocery store, but still....HIs mind had become so tangled in an apple quagmire (of his own making, he had to admit) that he couldn't make a decision, couldn't move on, needed help.

Then it happened. A girl, young, not quite womanly, but old enough to be out on her own, probably driving a car, God Forbid, reached across him, grabbed a misshapen something, blushed when she brushed against him, looked up, smiled, said, "Don't you just love these, especially the name?"

He had no idea what she was talking about and must have looked confused.

She held up the misshapen object. "Ugly Fruit," she announced, "and so delicious."

He froze, paused (imperceptibly, he hoped), and then nodded, saying the only thing he could think of. "Yes," he said, "they're my favorite."

Whew! Saved again by harmless prevarication.

The Blues

    It was still raining when he woke up, a steady rain, without the drama of thunder and lightning, good for farmers, he assumed, but a challenge for the perfect day the had planned (perhaps prematurely), for Allegra. The day he had planned since he first saw her behind the cosmetic counter at Macy's, extolling the subtleties of blush to a pair of women who needed more than a smear of pink to achieve the radiance Allegra exuded.

    It was his mother's fault. Or maybe he should give Mama the credit for his consultation with Allegra. Mother's Day, innocent Mother's Day, had sent him to Macy's for perfume. Mama loved anything that smelled good, and after a lifetime of prickly roses and wilting tulips, he had decided to be unpredictable this year, to surprise the person who knew him best with a gift she didn't expect.

    "Chanel Number 5?"

    Allegra had laughed, well, snorted, "Every man thinks Chanel No. 5 is the be all for every woman."

    "But it's just for my mother."

    "Just? Just?'

    He blushed, his worst quality, being a man who blushed when embarrassed. He felt the heat which meant the red had already spread up his neck to his scalp, and told him that this woman, Allegra in flowing cursive on her name tag, might be the one. He laughed, stuttered, tried to retract the "just" by over-explaining. "I always, well, usually, most of the time, give her something that smells wonderful on Mother's Day--a bouquet, chocolates, once a ride in the country to smell the first breath of spring."

    Allegra smiled, obviously charmed by his good taste, creativity, and filial devotion (or so he assumed), so he kept going, probably a sentence--or paragraph--too long, the good son extolling his own virtues, until she interrupted him.

    "Here is what you need." It was a small, dainty bottle. "L'Heure Bleu," she said, with a repeat of the dazzling smile. "Shall I wrap it up?"

    "It's so small," he blurted, without thinking, without really knowing anything about perfume.

    Allegra already had it wrapped in luminescent gold paper speckled with clouds of blue, and, when he choked on the price, Allegra reminded him that "The queen wore nothing else."

    $120 and 2 days later, his mother peered at the tiny, multifaceted bottle. "The blue hour?" she said, with only a hint of wonder, but the quizzical wonder that you might call disappointment or criticism, was enough for him to remember instantly that his mother's most common lament was "I've got the blues."

    Well, Allegra had said, "Let me know how she likes it...." Which had sealed the deal, because he would have to report back and the two of them could celebrate his mother's delight or, more probably, find solace in her lack of sophistication. 

Something to Celebrate

        She believed in age, in embracing growing old, in knowing, even loving, the scrawny arm, the wave of wrinkles up her cheek, across her forehead, even the neck, the old woe-is-me chicken neck, not a smooth quarter inch anywhere, just the patina of age--patina, the description of beauty for an antique table, a beloved rocking chair, and now, her face.

Well, why not?

Why not?

Yes, why not?

A new mantra for the unstoppable journey into old, old old, then really old.

And who would want to stop it now, leap off the wheel of life too early, become a memory, not her memory, but somebody's, and for how long would that last?

Well, from being a memory, she could move to story, even an oft-told tale, an amusing anecdote, a fond remembrance of another time period for her children, grandchildren and....

Well, yes, better than Glad she's gone...but, really who would think that?

Nope. Not to be considered.

But what's after "faint memory" or "faded history," a story the grand grand grands know, maybe even tell once or twice?

Time...life--was all illusion anyway--a construct, human invention to satisfy the impulse to count, to plan, to know, record, predict, think, assess...which, apparently, is what she was now consumed with.

Yes, that must be it...She was just thinking, letting her thoughts spool out, playfully, an amusing game while she stretched her good leg over the side of the bed, forced the other (given to cramps) to follow, until she was sitting on the side of the bed, straightening her back, vertebrae by vertebrae, to an upright posture-perfect (well, practically perfect) position, the essential prelude to standing up.

Which she did, victorious again!

ALLELUIA!

Urban Farmer

It was raining, and the chickens were miserable. The chicks, well, chick, singular, was pretty much ignored by the young hen who continued to sit on the remaining egg while her offspring cowered in the corner of the so-called shelter Rudy had built (as in hastily constructed when Marla insisted.)

"They need shelter," she said, twice. "You're the one...." which was all she needed to say because he knew what was coming ....the one who wanted chickens.

Which was true.  He wanted and knew now but admitted to no one, that what he really wanted were fair weather chickens strutting around their suburban yard, proof of their ecological instincts, their commitment to a healthier earth, to organic everything--even though the reluctant environmentalist, Marla pointed out, "Monsanto corn is still organic--anything that lives is organic, even you!"

So they got chickens. Well, he got chickens, for the eggs, he said, from a farmer, that a friend of a friend recommended, 3 noisy hens, that immediately hid in the hosta when he released them in the back yard. 

"Free range," he said when Marla complained.

~

They were down to two chickens by the next day...who knew why.

"They have wings," Marla pointed out.

"True," he said, "but I didn't know they could actually fly!"

~

That was over a month ago--and now there was only Henrietta the hen and, inexplicably, a single baby chick, soaked and miserable in the so-called shelter.

"About your urban farm experiment," Marla said, "it was the right thing to do, ecologically and all that, but we were the wrong people to do it."

He waited, silent, because she was right, waited for the harsh words, the litany of his errors, the truth.

"And, I think," she continued, "that the farmer would take Henrietta Hen and Baby Chick back, free of charge."

"You think?"

"Yes," she said, "I'll load them up, and you can drive."

Saved again by generosity and love.

Morning Gift

         He was a poet, and she had loved him for 50 years--which was hard to explain if you caught him unawares--as she did most mornings--standing in the back yard, scrawny arms spread in a V, reaching to the skies and proclaiming

                                                    Morning, morning is here!

                                                    Another day!

                                                    Awake! Awake! Awake!

                                                    Before it slips away

                                                    Away...away...away...

    Each word quieter than the one that preceded it. At the last away, he tightened the frayed rope that held his bathrobe closed and walked toward the back door, stopping only to pick a dandelion--or three--for their morning bouquet.

    She had begged him to stop with the dandelions. "They're weeds. Picking just encourages them to make more," she'd said.

    For the next week he increased the number he picked until on the 7th day, when he offered his straggly bouquet, he sang, sang

                                                        Dandelions are here,

                                                        Yellow beauties plucked for two,

                                                        Beautiful like you.

    No wonder she was besotted with this crazy old man.

                                                    

Scalded

He'd waited too late--as he usually did. You would think he'd learn. He thought he would learn, had learned, but he didn't tell her about...., hadn't told her, wouldn't, shouldn't...no! Strike that thought. No need to confess anything.

Better get out of bed, make the coffee. No strike that. Coffee at 3:17 am was a bad idea.

Tea. 

He'd make tea, some kind of non-caffeinated tea, just what she would do, what she liked. He stared at the two tea packets he'd wormed out of the back of the silverware drawer. Who keeps tea in a drawer? He did. Pulled them out and laughed. Both packets were wrinkled, really crumpled beyond recognition. One of them Ear....something, maybe Earl Grand? Earth Good? Early Great? The bag was too bent and broken to make out the words, maybe Easy...

"Shit," he said and threw it away.

The other packet clearly said Mint. Actually, it said Min, the last letter obliterated, but the bag was green, and it smelled like mint, and the water was boiling, so he dropped the tea bag in yesterday's coffee cup, poured in the water, sat at the kitchen table, and took a sip. Burned his tongue and probably irreversibly scalded his throat, which gave him another reason to hate tea, but....but, something to tell her, to make her laugh at his chronic ineptitude, his tea story a bit of an apology, a first step back: "Look how inept I am, how vulnerable, just like you...."

No! Drop the "just like you." 

Say, "What would you have done?" 

Or  "What kind of tea should I drink at 3 in the morning?" 

Or he could say "I should have called you," then laugh in that self-deprecating manner he'd been working on.

And she would smile, say, "It's all right" or "I'm glad you didn't call. How thoughtful." 

Or.... maybe he should just whisper, "See how much I need you." 

Or just, "I love you," and all would be healed, made right, back to normal.

It hadn't worked all that well before, but better late than....no he couldn't go there. Just leave it at that--better late.

Windy Talk

        Will the wind ever stop blowing?

What kind of question is that? Of course it will.

But, then it'll start up again, won't it?

Eventually, but not immediately.

So, that's the answer, as in "no, it will never stop blowing."

That depends.

On what?

Well, on what you mean by stopping, as in stopping forever, never to blow again.

Oh! Aha! I see. That is different from pausing, stopping altogether versus pausing for an unspecified time...which could be minutes, or hours, days or...

Weeks.

Months.

A year.

Seconds? No stopping for seconds hardly counts because you would hardly notice.

Well, a sailor would.

A sailor on a boat with sails, you mean.

Well, obviously, but I meant here, in our yard.

What is the difference? Wind is wind.

But a sailor depends on the wind for transportation, movement. Here, it's just an annoyance.

Or a welcome friend on a smoldering day.

Unless it's blowing grit in your eyes.

Oh no, I'm not going there. This conversation is about wind, only wind.

But, who has seen the wind?

Neither you nor I.

Hmmm, that sounds familiar. "But when the trees bow down their heads/the wind is passing by."

Exactly! Oh, that is good, really good.

Yes. Christina thought so.

Christina! That Italian woman I saw you with last week. "Just a friend," you claimed.

Christina's a poet. Christina Rosetti.

That explains nothing. I suppose the wind just blew her into your arms.

He laughs.

This conversation is over, she announces and stomps past, no, blows past him, missing his final words.

"The wind is passing by."

In Beauty

It was early. Too early to be up and walking around the house, tiptoeing around the house because it was so early--the sun just rising, sending streams of light through the windows, enough to see that her sister still slept in the other bed, enough to see her parents, two lumps in their bed, one of them snoring, but softly, a wheeze of air in, then a rumble out.

She knew those sounds because she was a night walker. It was that secret, private part of herself that she never mentioned to anyone. Now that it was almost summer, the sun illumined her silent explorations, her soft padding from room to room, checking on the sleepers. Not even the dog stirred, but the cat always followed her, just as silent, the two of them going room to room. All is well. All is well. All is well.

That's all she needed to know, that all was well as the new day began its slow unfolding, its promise of the familiar. Oatmeal for breakfast (even in summer) and her dad's first hug, "Good morning, Princess." and her mother's, "How long have you been up?"

Always the same questions. 

"With the sun," she'd say because it was true. 

"Everything is fine," she said next, because it was true.

"Thank you, Princess." (Her father.)

"I'm so glad." (Her mother.)

And another day began in peace, in joy, in sunlight, in beauty.

(Inspired by Joy Harjo's "Eagle Poem" which ends with

                            We are truly blessed because we

                             Were born, and die within a

                                 True circle of motion,

                         Like eagle rounding out the morning

                             Inside us.

                             We pray that it will be done.

                             In beauty.

                             In beauty.