Raiders of the Berry Bush (WIP)
One for sorrow, two for mirth, three for a funeral, four for birth.”
It has been a night. An amazing night. Morning comes brilliant and with the cacophony of war brewing.
At 6:23, the long night of crickets is suddenly pierced by the tiny peep of some indeterminate bird. I see him in my mind’s eye — a plump little ball of feathers, puffed against the night’s cold.
A lone crow cries in the early morning. A gravelly and determined caw, caw, caw. Somewhere distant, a second replies, the sound hollow and echoing as only a forest can make it. To my surprise, a third voice — farther still — joins the conversation.
For many minutes the crows speak back and forth. Then, from the closest nest, a new voice cuts in. Hers is not the ratcheting gravel of an old bourbon-drinking, chain-smoking veteran. It is smooth, younger, lyrical — a counterpoint to her lover’s rasp.
Whatever the commentary, the crows are suddenly content. Perhaps they were arranging a meeting of the murder after the dew burns off. Or triangulating the bounds of their dominion. Or maybe it was simply the corvid version of that old Bud Light commercial: whazaaaaaaap?! Until she, wanting her beauty sleep, finally said, ENOUGH.
Don’t you love the voice of a reasonable woman?
Men, brothers, countrymen — celebrate and cherish the wild of women. Strip away your reason and your stubborn pride, and you’ll discover their superiority — in beauty, in intelligence, in the chromosome that completes us. Keep them polished upon their stately pedestals.
Meanwhile, the squirrels are gathering like the Riders of Rohan preparing for war against the deer.
The fawns and bucks, usually so silent, are stamping and charging at the air. Overhead, the furry rodents bang their spears against shields, crying: “Chuh-chuh-chu… squeeee squeee! Chu-chu-chu!”
A new champion arrives for the rodent battalions, sneaking in like an assassin. Her call begins as a sharp click-click-click-click I mistake for a bicycle freewheel. Strange, I think, that someone has coasted a ten-speed so close to my gossamer home. But as she enters the theater of battle, she — for it is squirrel Deborah, come to prophecy the outcome — trades her bicycle chant for the chu-chu-chu and the pounding of shields. The squirrels rally. The buck stamps, then charges away. Three fawns circle, anxious, stamping and snorting, but they too know the truth.
Outnumbered ten to one, they begin to wonder if the berry bushes are worth the cost to peace of mind. They retreat. Through the wild wood I catch flashes of their spotted bodies, sprinting to easier forage.
The squirrels cheer: a high-pitched skeeeesss skeeeeesss skeeeeess! Then, as one, they fall silent. They know they have won.
And to the victors go the spoils.
As Conan said when asked, “What is best in life?”
“To chase the deer, see them scatter before you, and to hear the cracking of acorns beneath
your paws.”
#essay #memoir #journal #osxs #100daystooffset #writing #travel
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Thank you for coming here and walking through the garden of my mind. No day is as brilliant in its moment as it is gilded in memory. Embrace your experience and relish gorgeous recollection.
Into every life a little light will shine. Thank you for being my luminance in whatever capacity you may. Shine on, you brilliant souls!
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