“You’ve broken the speed of the sound of loneliness”

California Scrub jays land so hard on the fence, and the Anna’s hummingbirds fly so loud. The Oak Titmouse is tiny but it makes a strong noise when it pecks at the fence giving itself away. The White Crowned Sparrows would be quiet-landing if it weren’t for their constant bickering with the Song Sparrows and the Black-eyed Juncos over the seeds.

I’ve come to know who is at my bird feeder even without seeing them or hearing their song. My back is to the fence while I collect the tomatoes, which never ripened, and I hear a thump knowing a Scrub jay has landed. He is so big for the feeder. He always has to figure out where to stand on it comfortably. I stop what I’m doing and I watch him position himself on the feeder. Then I see he inserts his long, pointed beak in the opening of the feeder, where seed often get stuck, and violently pushes more seed out of the container. The Scrub jay does nothing gently. They land loud, they scream, they throw seed around, they intimidate the smaller birds, they demand more seeds from me when they’ve run out. I laugh at how damn smart they are.

The Anna’s Hummingbird, I have named, Fearless, flies overhead with all the speed of a projectile, its wings making an almost-deafening sound. I don’t need to see it to know it’s there. And without thinking, I start singing, “You come on big when you’re feeling small. So what in the world’s come over you. You’ve broken the speed of the sound of loneliness.” The word loneliness triggers something in me and I am then reminded that I haven’t heard from my rodeo cowboy in days. He must have forgotten about me already, I surmise as I separate the green tomatoes I’ll use for soup. He’s always said we’ll be friends forever. Forever is so big a promise, but one I believe in this time how I’ve never believed in anything before, but in the promise of birdsong at sunrise. My thoughts are then interrupted by the hummingbird’s loud flight over me and my rodeo cowboy’s telepathic thoughts of gratitude, thanking me for giving him space right now when he most needs it, and his reassurance of the promise that we will be friends forever.

I’ve come to know who is at my feeder even without seeing them or hearing their song, and the rodeo cowboy is no exception.

Whiskeytown, A Love Story

It gives me some guilty pleasure to know why I bought a house on a Carr Fire lot. If you know me at all, you’ll know it had almost all to do with the Neko Case lyrics:

“Oh, lie. I thought you were golden, I thought you were wild. I caught you returning to the house you caught fire. But I was your favorite. And I said Amen.”

And a little to do with well, you know, my wildfire fascination and that secret I’ve been carrying around for years which I won’t ever say. I lived in Los Angeles then but I remember the Carr Fire well, and a text received in the middle of the night: “I leave for the Carr Fire at 0600.” And my secret worry, which followed on the days of firenadoes and my secret’s silence until one day I got all I could hope for: a text saying, “I’m alive” and a picture of a little man trying to put out a big flame.

It gave me some guilty pleasure to know the house had burned for me like no man ever had. It had burned to be rebuilt and bought by me. Now, that’s a love story. I have a pile of artifacts I have found from when the house was bulldozed. It gives me hope knowing that even bits of kitchen counters can rise from the ashes. Maybe my heart still has a chance.

Last night I walked the grounds with my headlamp while the dog chased frogs. I looked up at the somewhat starless night, I thanked the house for having burned for me.

“Oh, lie. I thought you were golden, I thought you were wild. I caught you returning to the house you caught fire. But I was your favorite. And I said Amen.”