rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

Blowing It

The mockingbird here sometimes sings far into the dusk— even later than the acorn woodpeckers on the ridge did. Tonight the clouds were almost invisible before it fell silent, and darkness devoured them only moments after the bird's final trill. I know from being awake early some mornings that the mockingbird will be singing again when the first faint light comes into the sky. Either it must take naps during the day, or it has incredible stamina. Either way, that bird has already made itself my favorite thing about this place. The dog across the bike path may bark, the freeway rumble noisily, and the aircraft pass overhead with annoying frequency, but hearing the mockingbird always cheers me.

The odds that I'll go out tomorrow are looking slim. The chance of rain is 100%, and it's supposed to get very windy. I'd hoped to get to Safeway this week for a few sale items, but it looks like I won't get a ride. That means if I can't go on the bus tomorrow because of the rain I'll have to do it on Tuesday, the last day of the sale. The bus service is not timed very well for going to either branch of Safeway. The time I'd have for shopping is short, and if the shopping takes a bit longer than I expect and I miss the return bus I'll have to wait an entire hour for the next one. Refrigerated goods are apt to do poorly. Such are the mundane irritations of my life in the mini-metropolis.

So it's going to be the middle of April already. Time seems severely disarranged to me anymore. Though days often seem to drag, they always end up having been too short, and the months are rushing by in a blur. The bush on the back fence, conspiring with calender and clock, or perhaps my fellow victim of their depredations, is sporting dozens of white flowers, dozens more that have already shriveled and turned brown, and dozens of unopened buds. Everything is happening at once, and taking both forever and no time at all. I feel like I have unearthed clues to some universal truth about time, but have no time to figure out what they mean. Maybe it's because I still have no cats. They were so good at making time recede into the background. Now I'm fully exposed to its irrationality in this relentless now, both past and future obliterated. I wish it was afternoon, and the mockingbird singing.

Sunday Verse

The Wind, One Brilliant Day

by Antonio Machado

The wind, one brilliant day, called
to my soul with an odor of jasmine.

"In return for the odor of my jasmine,
I'd like all the odor of your roses."

"I have no roses; all the flowers
in my garden are dead."

"Well then, I'll take the withered petals
and the yellow leaves and the waters of the fountain."

the wind left. And I wept. And I said to myself:
"What have you done with the garden that was entrusted to you?"

–translated by Robert Bly

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