The Sandhill Cranes

I clicked my heels and mentioned you three times to the tree fellers at the bar. There’s no one like you. There’s no one like you. There’s no one like you. And nothing happened. I’m always mentioning you to strangers, all your fires and your feats. I need to stop because I’m sure you’re not mentioning me to a soul. What’s it like to carry around a secret as big as me?

And just when I had come to terms that to you I’m nothing but an after-though, a never-thought, you sent me a message. It was a picture of Neko Case and her tour dates. She was coming to your town. “I pay attention to everything you say,” you said. I wondered if you ever played her to think about me.

Another night you wrote me reliving the last time we saw each other: “I remember everything about that night.”

The other night you wrote, “I’m in love with this new song. I’m curious to know what you think of it.” As it turns out I was in love with that new song too, had been playing and replaying it for weeks. I wrote back, “Baby, let’s get high and spend Johnny’s Cash.” I couldn’t believe how after all these years we were still so musically connected.

After some years, I understood what you were saying, I was not an after-thought but a forethought, an always-thought even if you never showed it. I told you I would come see the Sandhill Cranes outside your house. The ones you didn’t know were there until I told you your house is on the migrating path of the cranes dating back three million years. You laughed and called me a nerd. I told you the birds are all I have. I didn’t go because I tire of how our friendship has always been on your terms. So my feelings for you went south for the winter with the cranes and that was that. And I’d like to think that if you were here, I would fix you when in truth, if you were here, you’d probably break me. And these days, when The Velvet Underground comes on, I hit Next. They remind me of you and these days, I don’t let myself think about you though I’ve come to understand you will always think about me.

I clicked my heels and mentioned you three times to the tree fellers at the bar. There’s no one like you. There’s no one like you. There’s no one like you. And nothing happened. I’m always mentioning you to strangers, all your fires and your feats. I need to stop because I’m sure you’re not mentioning me to a soul. What’s it like to carry around a secret as big as me?

things are starting to fall into place

Juvenile Western Bluebirds are flying erratically across the front yard from tree to tree. It’s as if they’re showing off they can fly now. Their beaks are too large for their face and they barely have any blue on them at all. At first I thought them to be juvenile European Starlings because of the scaled wings. But when they took flight, I saw that beautiful blue hue that will soon take over most of their body. If they are males, of course. Where were so many nesting Bluebirds hiding? I love providing a safe space for birds to live in. And I recognize that as much as I miss them, the foxes needed to go. I have about a dozen Anna’s hummingbirds, and possibly one Blacked-chinned, who are constantly fighting over the flowers and the nectar I put out. I wonder what they did while I was gone. I took the nectar and the flowers away. With the juvenile bluebirds came some goldfinches and a cute little white-breasted nuthatch which comes around in the mornings when I’m getting ready for work. Fall migration has begun.

And with fall migration comes cooler weather, and less erratic behavior on my part, but I still have no desire to be around people and small talk. Yesterday, it was a Friday night and I came straight home from work, made some tea and read and went to bed at 8. I read in bed with the sliding glass door open where I could hear an eagle in the distance. These days, the idea of being around people is just too overwhelming to me. I keep thinking how if a younger me could look into the future and see my life here, younger me would be ecstatic. My scenario surpasses any expectations young me had of our adulthood. I have the treehouse in the woods and then some. I don’t have one rescue dog, but two and a kitty cat. I don’t have a hard time making ends meet and I’m doing quite well at work. Younger me would be so pleased. And I think present me is too.

The Great-tailed Grackle Whisperer

I’ve been gone for days and I like checking in on my house without me in it. There are more than a dozen live fires in the area and I left the living room light on. I’m hoping my Santa Lucia Island Sage will survive this heat without water. My mother is going to give me a baby Palo Verde to plant when I get back. My Secret has a Palo Verde growing on the side of his house. I’m going to plant mine where the pole barn once stood, but first I had to check how fast it would ignite during the next fire.

The only birds I see when I’m in Las Vegas, are the great-tailed grackles with their green eyes and iridescent blue-black feathers. They congregate in casino parking lots and they were there when I pulled up to the parking lot to meet with a tarot-card reader and bird whisperer I had an hour reading with.

She asked what I want to know. I said, “work, money, when am I leaving and where am I going?” I didn’t have love in mind because I’m a thousand tears past that and my yearning has a name now so I can close the book on that.

She pulled out some cards: “You have been thinking about someone night and day and he got your message. He’s going to contact you to tell you he’s finally leaving Redding.”

I said, “why is he going to tell me, what do I care? We haven’t talked in months.”

“He wants you to know because he still thinks about you, you were his safe haven. He felt good around you. “

“I know he did. Does he hate me for ghosting him?”

“You broke his heart when you did, but he was never mad, he knew why you did it. And that you had to do it. But girl. I hate to fucking tell you this because the connection between you two is so fucking strong, but fucking run for your life. When he calls, don’t pick up. His life is still a fucking disaster and he’s emotionally unavailable–and so are you! The two of you find comfort in each other in a really fucked up way, man, you both are fucked up, you really are. I smiled agreeing remembering our hashtag #fff – freak friends forever. And I hate that Vegas always reminds me of him. Then again, everything does.

“Well, I’m really happy for him that he is finally getting out of Redding, he’s been wanting that for a long time. I hope it all works out for him. He’s a good kid and I wish him all the best.” I told her wanting to move on to the next topic. I didn’t have love in mind because I’m a thousand tears past that and my yearning has a name now so I can close the book on that.

And I wasn’t lying. I do wish him all the best, one can only take so much heartache, it’s time he got a break in life. I’m glad that I won’t be so haunted anymore out on the streets, always looking at my rearview mirror, at every truck with Oregon plates that looks like his. I touched the raptor tattoos on the tender inside of my arm, the very ones I got so I could be a different person other than the one he knew. I felt some closure knowing he was moving out of town.

To end the reading, The Devil card came up. “You gotta get your shit together” she said, “you’re a fucking mess right now.” She pointed to two cards, Queen of Cups and High Priestess, “don’t forget your crown, you are a queen and high priestess. But you know all of this. Straighten out in your head, man, or it’s going to be bad.”

She told me nothing new. I already know I’m a fucking mess, but I left laughing thinking it’s hard to find someone who curses more than me, and she definitely did. I appreciate people who curse a lot. As I rode back to my parents’ I thought about the other things she told me about the cowboy, which I, too, already knew, because I may be a fucking mess, but I am still a witch who knows things. And his things are sad, sad things, He really deserves a break in life. I stopped at a red light and saw the sidewalk lined with Palo Verde trees: “Oh, wow, I totally forgot to ask about My Secret. The one who has a huge Palo Verde tree on the side of his house. My Secret, the one I’ve been carrying around for close to a decade. My Secret, the one, who took one look at the raptor tattoos on my arm and said, “I love them.” I forgot to ask about him! He has officially become an after-thought.

I touched the raptor tattoos on the tender inside of my arm, the very ones I got so I could be a different person other than the one he knew. I didn’t have love in mind because I’m a thousand tears past that and my yearning has a name now so I can close the book on that.

family of foxes

Charlie, what do you think? You outlasted frostbite and followed every beast. Can you sing? Can you love? Because if you can’t by now it don’t look good for us.

I had thought my mulberries would go to waste this fall, but a family of foxes moved in. The mom watches me and only walks away when she thinks she’s communicated what she needs me to understand. Her three pups tussle and chase each other not minding me watching on at all.

When you live alone up here, like I do, a family of foxes coming to live with you is as good as any company can be and you’re grateful.

The great rhinoceros died alone, and maybe that’s as good as dying gets, bring it all back and be kind, said the sentimental beast.

I had thought my humanity would go to waste this fall, but I have a friend who stops by on his way to the coast. We sit out back in the rocking chairs, we drink whiskey and talk.

When you live alone up here, like I do, a friend who stops by to see if you need help and sits with you in the rocking chair watching life go by, is as good as any company can be and you’re grateful.

While my friend and I talked, I felt us being watched. I turned, “look,” I whispered to my friend, “there’s momma fox watching us from the fence.” She let him take a picture and till stood there looking on. Momma fox looks at me as she were trying to tell me something. Is she trying to remind me I haven’t been to the underworld in some time? Is she saying I need to go to the underworld because I need to be told something? Her silence is heavy. So much so that I know whenever she’s watching me.

When you live alone up here, like I do, to have a family of foxes eating your mulberries feels so big and special, and you are reminded that your heart still beats and you haven’t lost your sense of wonder about things in this world. That you sing. That you love even if no one’s here, and that we may still have a chance at this life thing. So I watch on, and they let me. Today, the dad taught the pups how to hunt a squirrel and cleanly eat its meat. They left the carcass for me to clean up. My mother asked, “do you think they will live there forever?”

I don’t think so. The mulberries will soon be gone and there will be nothing left for them to eat so they’ll have to move on, but I’ll always remember when I housed a family of foxes.

Charlie, what do you think? You outlasted frostbite and followed every beast. Bring it all back and be kind and tell the story how the foxes ate the carraway seeds.

*lyrics from Max Garcia Conover “Week 73: The End of the Fables”

cavity nesters

Maybe there’s a God above
But, all I’ve ever learned from love
Was how to shoot somebody who outdrew you

This nesting season, the Western Bluebird nesting boxes were taken over by
European Starlings. It wasn’t my intention to harbor this aggressively invasive
species, but once it happened, what was I to do? Steal the eggs? Kill the
fledglings? Poison the parents?

Last nesting season, exactly one year ago,  my heart was taken over by a secretive, shady motherfucker. It wasn’t my intention to harbor this egotistical liar, but once
it happened, what was I to do? Cut my bleeding heart out? His? Call the passion
police?

So I did the next best thing, I disappeared without a trace, because all
I’ve learned from love is how to shoot somebody who outdrew you.

The baby starlings will soon fledge. I will clean the nesting box out and
hope for Western Bluebirds someday. 

 

playing at love

In a matter of seconds, I became your wife and gave us a life together.

When I called the hotel housekeeping to see if they had recovered your shirt I accidentally left in the closet, to be your wife seemed much easier than the actual truth. The Housekeeping manager didn’t need to know we are not married, or even together. It seemed superfluous to tell her I hung your button-down shirt in the closet because it was too wrinkled, and you had forbade me from ironing it, and we had planned to be there three nights, not just one, but there had been a thunderstorm, which shut the pool down. It wasn’t for her to know that without the promise of the pool, we didn’t want to be there anymore. We had thought of jumping into the Sacramento River we could see from our room, but that was only in jest, the thunder rolled for hours until it brought in the down pour. I took your hand and we walked out into the rain. I got an Uber and it took us to a nearby dive and we got drunk. The Housekeeping manager didn’t need to know that I have never offered to iron a man’s shirt before, and had you let me do it, I would have not hung it up in the closet and forgotten it, because you would have worn it. The Housekeeping manager didn’t need to know we drank so much, we fell asleep until I Ubered home at three and I let you sleep so the shirt I hung in the closet was the last of your concerns, because I was. You wanted to know if I’d gotten home okay. The Housekeeping manager didn’t need to know that even though you’re not my husband, you give me everything I ask for and want. She also didn’t need to know that because we live a thousand miles apart and have different lives, we can safely play at love with no possibility of breaking each other’s hearts.

So when she answered, “Sheraton Housekeeping.”

I said, “This is Rebeca Jones and my husband and I stayed in room 324 on Wednesday and we left his shirt in the closet. Might you have found it?”

“Yes, Mrs. Jones, we have it. I will leave it for you at the front desk.”

The Housekeeping manager didn’t need to know that you were already long gone, but I was missing you, and your shirt would have to do.

a good fantasy

My lover equates me with the city so I wanted him to see my mountain town for himself. He drove me to the convenient store and the post office to get my mail. The post office doesn’t come here so we’re entitled to a free mail box at the post office off Highway 299. When we pulled up he said, “damn, this is country, girl.”

It is country, and I love my little town of drifters, where population 1,701 seems like pure myth, like some families had forgotten their dead died, because there ain’t but a handful of houses here. And there’s that weird, pretty little elongated cabin along the highway, where the young man and his dog spend their evenings and weekends gardening and burning. While across the street in front of the post office, men occasionally stand holding their thumbs up. This highway is the only way to get to the coast from Redding. Most of the men don’t bother trying to hitch a ride, they just walk the whole stretch of 250 miles, stopping to sleep by the side of the road when night falls or fatigue takes over. On this particular occasion there is a young man with long brown hair, his backpack on the asphalt and he’s holding a sign barely-readable that says, “Redwood Forest.” I wondered what was so urgent in the redwood forest that he needed to get there.

I tell my lover he’s like my genie, with him, I wish, and I get. In a drunken moment I had invited him to come to my house and he hadn’t forgotten, he came. We sat in the backyard in rocking chairs and drank. He told me about trees, I told him about birds. We talked about the fire and how no one ever comes to visit.

When we drove by the lake I said, “I wish we could spend a weekend together someday so we could hang out at the lake.” And I remembered my conversation with the Hurricane: “all I have are my fantasies” and we had laughed because that’s all there is to have in the city or in the country, and with men, that’s really all you can ever hope for, a good fantasy.

fire of another kind

I pull over and my hands are shaking. I didn’t realize it had rattled me that much to accidentally be driving behind the rodeo cowboy for a few miles. I text my therapist. She understands the seriousness of it and says, “are you okay? You want to talk?” I tell her I’m okay, and will wait until we meet next. But seeing him has set me back. When I think of him, again, I can’t breathe. I’m going to drown or I’m missing air, but what I’ m missing is him. Then the tears come. It’s hard to know which part hurts most in this scenario. That I got duped so easy or that my infallible instinct failed me so horribly and had actually thought myself loved back. But I’ll get there. Fast forward a few nesting seasons and I won’t even remember his name but I’ll remember every bird’s.

Living here, in a fire-ravaged landscape, constantly reminds me things do rise from the ashes no matter how severe the fire burned. I’m about to mark my two year anniversary living at the house and I have loved watching the property’s black scars become flowers for the birds. I currently have a couple dozen quail nesting on the property. Two Steller’s Jays are nesting in the neighbor’s oak, but come feed at my yard. There are a few juvenile Black-headed grosbeaks, which are the cutest, and I never knew that Black-headed grosbeaks sang so loud and beautiful. I open up the windows and let their song come in the house before it’s gone again until next nesting season, when my fire-ravaged scars will have become flowers for the birds.

Take me as I am

He first came here for the river and the salmon. He keeps coming back for me. He says he’s never met anyone who likes birds so much. He also says he likes me drunk because my walls come down and I sweet talk. He likes to take care of me and I let him. And the second time we met, we spent three days together. We kissed and kissed and kissed, and I understood we were both affection-starved and healing little by little with every kiss.

While he slept and I stared at myself in the hallway mirror, for the first time in my life, I understood what it was like to have an adult relationship with someone. I once told the rodeo cowboy that a secret lover had texted that he was coming to get me. The rodeo cowboy wondered what I was going to do. I laughed, “what men want with me and what they have the actual balls to do with me, are two entirely different things, darling.” That went for him, too. And that has been my absolute reality with all men, until now. My new friend said he’d come back and he did. He said he’d take me in, and he did. And he is absolutely not afraid of me and what I want, he gives me and more. It is sad to say that in my 47 years, “counting the tears of ten thousand men” with my feet always slipping, I have never had such an adult relationship. There’s always been the secrets, the complications, all odds stacked against them, their fear of me, their inferiority complexes. Is it any wonder they have broken me?

My new friend says he’s got me pegged, and perhaps he does, because when he said, “you only like me because I live 3,000 miles away, don’t you?” I couldn’t lie and I laughed, “If you lived here I would have never given you the time of day”

…because I’m that fucked up. But my new friend takes me as I am, and even loves me for it.