May 15, Mating Call
Almanac for Post Moderns
Unexpectedly beautiful day today. I wake at 5:45, and my wife is already outside watering, coffee in her free hand.
Days like these are like a light wind outside an open window; they draw us out to the chatter and whistle, almost glottid language birds are making, the scene of growing, mating, more of all things; now the outside shuns furniture, unless it’s outside.
Never more apparent as I sit at my desk. I hear ‘an intruder’ singing and fluttering just below the open window. Clear call but unclear what kind of bird. Cat’s curious too. Then the orange bird perches immediately in front of me outside on the sill, a bright male Oriole tilts his head, looks me in the eye and sings a single note, needing to find or defend her. Then disappears, song in tow.
The interior suffers in spring, unregulated splitting and joining and splitting. The individual suffers a radical expansion I don’t know what to do with; because it doesn’t do alone; all’s only as good as the mix around it. The song sparrows try and try to join, fertilize, lay and hatch — outside, then inside the little house we screwed to a front yard tree . . .
