Now I notice the beautiful breast of a bluejay in the park, a cardinal’s red flash through the yard, and a sweet nest with tiny blue eggs in my front door wreath.īetween frantic bird calls I heard the wind move the hackberry trees, the fluid swimming of their branches, an undulation I recognized from my childhood near the ocean. He showed me a video of a tiny, plump Kookaburra singing-a bird he loves from his Australian childhood.
I used to begrudge the birds and their early morning racket until my boyfriend started pointing out lovely birdie things. I am illiterate when it comes to birds, though I’ve newly come to love them. Nature reclaimed territory after my party’s interruption to the natural order. When the wind blew, I looked up to see trees bending at the middle and dancing to their own rustling song above my roof. I settled into a seat, my two dogs sniffing near my feet. The patio showed an alternating pattern of their bright aluminum and the tiny seed pods from the hackberry trees that shade the yard. Beer cans littered the yard, fallen off the table in the early morning hours. The next morning, I took a book outside and saw the aftermath of the soiree. The tongue-in-cheek saying goes, “Two’s company, three’s a crowd,” but we’re isolated so much these days and a small group is a welcome indulgence.
#Hackenverry cardinal land scaping full#
The evening felt full of energy, though only four of us shared it. In late June, I hosted a small gathering of friends within the bounds of pandemic safety recommendations. HAYAN CHARARA’S These Trees, Those Leaves, This Flower, That Fruit.Mike Chin’s My Grandfather’s an Immigrant, and So Is Yours.
SY HOAWAH’S Ancestral Demon of a Grieving Bride.
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