By Tom Swift
Staff Writer
Baby birds not taller than the blades of mowed grass they stand in bob for seeds and safflower.
A squirrel sits on its hindquarters, double-fisting sunflowers. I don't mind if I do.
A cardinal swoops in, lands on the flat red feeder, filled an hour ago, joining a buddy.
Another squirrel taps along the top of the six-foot, wood fence, entering then existing the stage. You don't see me.
The number of creatures in my backyard that I can count without moving or squinting is in the double digits.
Chirping is also heard from the overgrown lilac. So there are more birds on hand than those I can see.
The red maple's full canopy throws shade over most of the scene. Sunshine covers the rest.
Just then a black chickadee flies fast toward me, then veers up and over head, rising, rising, straight rising, yes, he says, see me. This isn't a bad life.
There's a bowl of water nearby, another below the tree. Fresh and free.
It's cool. It's comfortable. I'm grateful I finally hear thee.
Black birds and red birds, young and mature.
There is nothing more, there is nothing better, except my mind grasps for something that is not here. An answer. An end. We are always on the cusp of wanting something more. All I want is to be here. But I can't be here. Not entirely. I want to love it all. But I won't. Not fully. This moment will pass. I will look back and wish I were here again. I will wish that so much.
All I can do is write it. That's the only chance I got to capture the illusion that I was present.
Good morning, my friends. Thank you for giving me the chance to be with you.
