Bird Moves
“It’s turtles all the way down the line.”
-Sturgill Simpson
A hundred singing dark-eyed Juncos spook simultaneously. They alight and re-shuffle like a deck of cards, relanding in new spots on the highwire near the exit ramp. The tiny birds hatched knowing their scales and they only play jazz now. There’s something amazing about an animal that can fly anywhere but is content and uncomplaining in this gelid landscape. Mae and I are warm as we listen to Khruangbin’s drummer keep the beat. A car ride with a three year old is never boring with turns and undulations on the snowy road and in the conversation and I’m happy for it. Me being bored feels like a million years ago. The cars outside are quiet as we pass the Whispering Pines trailer park. The license plate ahead of us says “2FER12”, rounding up to 17% which sounds closer to my high school free throw shooting percentage.
Further up the road, big flakes fall for the first time in a while, lazily dropping through the air and hitting the car windshield. Mae sings in the back and kicks my seat like a drum. Up the road, an oncoming speeding car starts to fishtail toward us, into our lane, out of our lane, into our lane. Everything slows in that second. A wave of calm realization pours. How do we avoid this? The oncoming car swerves wildly across the lane and I tap the breaks but there’s nowhere to go. Then just as quickly as the car came, it was gone. I see it drifting sideways down the road in the rearview mirror. My sight moves to Mae smiling, looking down as she plays with her doll, Cammile. Adrenaline dumps like hot angry water, into my bloodstream. Some of life’s risks are visible. I know the lottery called doing, working, driving, riding, swimming and living. Numbers get called. I think about this and reach back behind me. Mae gives me a high five. We look for the end of that long white line.
As I settle into work, I realize that I don’t dislike all technology. I just prefer technology in the style of non-stationary bicycles, lemongrass dental floss and the red lever on the bubbler that pours scaling spring water. Boiling. I’ll take it. I fill my teacup again and again over the same bag until the water stops turning copper. Spent. This time of the year the outdoor water I choose to sit in is charged with ice. I wonder if it will freeze over with me in it like a pike waiting for spring. The cold is such pure feedback, making talk and any words feel cheap but I still write. On this morning, the chunks remain loose and the owl makes smooth sounds under a waning (Or is it waxing? I forget what Will told me.) moon and I feel like Les Murray who said, “I’m only interested in everything.”, where everything and everyone is endlessly interesting. The morning owl is only interested in being wild and is tougher than me. I’m suddenly interested in getting warm and move away from that big morning source where there’s no winning or achieving.
Now warm, as the low morning sun comes through the windows, Mae says, “Quick! Hide. I can hear their footprints.” She’s right. The other kids are up and sleepily stepping down the stairs. We march on, past the decorative well made from painted car tires. Past the pizza box that says “Pep” on the side. Today there’s most definitely pep.
木漏れ日,
Andy
