Dog and butterfly

In the late 1970s, I was a student at Ohio State University. I lived in a neat old apartment building shaped like an "E" with small quiet stone courtyards nestled between the letter's stems.

My junior and senior years, I stayed in my little campus apartment during the summer quarter, taking one or two classes. It was so nice. The campus was quiet, High Street was quiet, not too much studying stress and mourning doves cooed outside my second-floor windows every quiet morning.
I had a part-time job as a secretary in the Department of Anthropology, typing poorly written research papers and getting on the nerves of the office manager, who played bagpipes in the women's restroom during lunch break.

One morning I headed out of my building to cross West Woodruff and head over to South Campus, where my job was. I stopped for traffic and saw a dog across the street. I don't know why, but it headed right in front of a car and was run over. I saw it go under the front wheels, tumbling backwards; then the rear wheels went over it.
I was frozen, then amazed to see the dog get up and trot under the shade of a tree on the side of the street it had started from.
Panicked, I ran back into my building, called campus police and ran back out. I don't know what I thought they could do, but I had to do something. The dog was on its side, still breathing, but died within a few minutes. The car had not stopped.

This morning, sitting in traffic, I watched a butterfly land on the hot asphalt and slowly flex its wings. It lifted up, then landed again almost in the same spot. Was it doing what comes naturally, warming itself?
Traffic started and the rush of air drew the butterfly under the car next to us. It fluttered frantically, tumbling, reminding me of that long-ago dog. A wheel barely clipped it and it landed on the pavement, wings going weakly as I watched it fade in my rear view mirror.
 
All we have is the present and we can only be who we are. Scant protection, though, against the randomness of fate.

Pic

This is a propos of absolutely nothing. Just a photograph, from the short days of winter. On the third day of summer.
The latter of which will be gone soon enough and the former of which will be here even sooner.
Isn't this a gorgeous sky?

Patter and play

Raining very softly this evening as Twist and I walked through the park.

How do you describe the sound of billions of gently falling raindrops on a canopy made of young green leaves? To me, it sounds like a lazy, jittery "shrrrr" with an occasional gentle "splat."

Rarely for her, Twist was unfazed by the barometric conditions; I think they were all perfectly aligned to soothe, not scare. (At least if you are a high-strung brindle girl greyhound.)

We rounded the first path loop by the ditch and saw four tween boys playing a jumping game. I knew it was a game because they were calling out very specific rules to each other, rather, I should say the head boy was calling and the others were following. Must jump so far, no touching branches, can't land in water, etc., etc.

It's been a long time since I was a child and I don't remember what the rule-making in play is supposed to work out. Seems so dull to me now. Being a grown-up has plenty enough rules.

I liked better the daydreaming part of being a kid. Good practice for figuring out what spring rain in the park sounds like.

Moth

You are dark brown and about half the size of a pinkie finger. With a couple of lighter brown spots low on the wings. Let's call you Moth. You have been living for at least a week in the women's restroom, east, of the second floor at 34 Boulevard of the Allies.

Living motionless. For days on end.

On Wednesday, you move from bathroom stall window (this is a very old building) to the counter by the bathroom mirror. And remain motionless after that.

Then, late in Thursday afternoon, I go in to brush my teeth and you are grooming yourself, then fluttering. Up and around. Grey ceramic tile walls on one side, fluorescent lights above. A window on the other side of this old room, but your are too far from it to escape, if you want to. Fluttering away from me as I contemplate catching you in a coffee cup. (Yes, I am at work here.) Moth-like, you head for the fluorescent lights and rest.

Today is Friday and you are gone. I had pushed open a window, so maybe you flew out from four to six walls and escaped. Hope you fluttered to good place, Moth.

Ray Bradbury, thanks very much

Dear Ray Bradbury,
Thank you. For transporting me into fantastic worlds that were so near to me.
For "The October Country" (Uncle Einar), which will always be my favorite collection, and for "The Illustrated Man," of which my favorite is "The Last Night of the World."
Thank you, Ray. For summer nights of fireflies, for circus mirrors and rockets, for illustrated men, for hope, and for the mysteries of the deep and quiet Illinois summer night.
Much, much love,
Katy

To the ground

The early 20th century building I work in is yellow brick, but it has a metal skin covering it that was installed sometime in the 1970s or so in an attempt to update it.

It's not easy on the eyes, but the Downtown Pittsburgh starlings don't care. It's nest heaven for them. But it's a dangerous heaven. Every spring around the building are fallen baby birds, squawking and cheeping for Mom. Sometimes they manage to flap to some kind of cover and survive. Usually not, but I only see the sad remains of their ends, black patches of flattened feathers on the sidewalk.

This morning, my blissful blindness to baby bird death ended. As I pulled up my bicycle to the light rail station, I watched a starling (or grackle) pick up a baby bird that had fallen from a locust tree. At first I thought it was mother trying to rescue baby. Then big bird dropped baby bird and flew off, leaving it fluttering weakly on its back. For a millisecond I thought to pick it up, but no, I can't save it, I know that.

Tulip poplar blossom from Bird Park, Mt. Lebanon. Photo by Katy Buchanan

The predator returned and this time, successfully snatched its victim in its beak and flew off, presumably with its lunch, or lunch for its own brood.

So my day started sadly, with a baby fallen to the ground. Unlocking my bike at the station after work, there was a purple finch chattering away in the locust, but I couldn't see any nest.

It's also the season for tulip poplars to bloom. And every spring, I always find a few blossoms, fallen to the ground in the park.

Rare things

Trillium, Bird Park, PA. Spring 2012. Photo by Katy Buchanan

I spend a great deal of time with my head in the clouds; daydreaming, engaging in made-up conversations, talking to myself.
It's a wonder my face is not close personal friends with every utility pole out there. Which is not to say I haven't accidentally kissed a few. That's OK. Means I made someone (or several someones) split their collective guts.
If my head is not floating, it is hanging; my gaze fixed on the peculiar delights of the American sidewalk. But we won't go into too much detail here. Suffice it to say black, Rorshach wads of discarded gum are the loveliest things you'll see down there.
Here is something nice I've seen recently. It's a trillium.
And I didn't even bump into anything.