Little bird

The building that I work in is old. A modernization attempt sometime in the 1950s or 60s resulted in its yellow brick facade being layered over with a metal grid.

Ugly to humans, irresistible to birds.

So, every spring, tiny nestlings fall from their precarious nests and squawk on the sidewalk. And sadly become little fledgling corpses.

Tonight, however, I witnessed one brave little avian soul survive the worst of all odds: Rush hour traffic.

I am waiting for the bus, and hearing a persistent chitter. Yes, it is a baby bird on the sidewalk. It hops toward the curb, away from the building, underneath the sandaled feet of a young man, who slows briefly to ponder this noisy little creature.

It hops further toward the curb and into the street.

It hops, squawking away, all the way across Boulevard of the Allies, pausing briefly under a Jeep, as if under a mother's protective wing.

I dart out briefly in a pause in traffic, trying to redirect it back to the closest point of safety. Fellow patrons of the Port Authority look on in sympathy and mild amusement.

Silly. Little bird is intent on the other side and ignores my directions.

Hop and hop. All the way across, making racket to ward off death by SUV.

All the way to safety and the green grass of the other side.

Little bird, you are a hero!

Anger and quiet

I let my emotions get the better of me this evening.

A long day, starting with an overslept, rushed morning, ended with me (Miss Public Transit) sitting behind the wheel in the evening rush hour.

Couldn't do it.

I detoured to a less traveled route, probably taking the same time to get home as I would have sitting, but at least I was moving. Got honked at by an idiot, made every red light and basically wondered why I was being such a slave to hurry. Don't know. Just was. And didn't f---ing feel like sitting in traffic or being honked at by idiots.

Finally home. Let the girls out, sat down in front of the fire with a glass of wine, scratched the dogs and took a few deep breaths.

We went for our walk. No owl tonight. Just the quiet of the evening, black tree silhouettes against the grey night sky and the sound of a train in the far distance.

The rush of air deep into my lungs.

I felt better, and we strolled home.

Reflections of a day

What do you call the moments of the day, remembered in a jumble, deep into evening when the daylight has long since passed?

This morning brought dry, bitter cold and the palest of January light.

In the park, the dogs and I had barely come down the steps and moved down the path when a crashing sound stopped us, at least two of us with ears up. We turned and on the slope above us, two deer, galloping full speed, flashed by, followed by a small, golden streak, barking.

I expected shortly to hear horns honking, as they were headed toward traffic, but as we continued on, the only sound was a whistle for a dog, and the next sigh the golden streak, in the form of a running boxer, rushing back past us into the park.

We were left with the hollow sound of a woodpecker drilling on a tree trunk and icy water rippling over stones in the creek. We finished our walk uneventfully, the memory of the chase immediately replaced in the dogs' minds by the next fascinating smell.

I went to the hospital in the early afternoon to visit Carl, who now has a very talkative roommate. On his cell phone. With the nurses. About things you just would rather not hear about, as they are unpleasant daily realities in the hospital. I won't say thanks for sharing.

After work, I drove back to visit again. Heading in to Oakland on the Boulevard of the Allies, I saw the moon, low and huge in the evening sky, veiled by cloud drift. At the hospital, I headed to the top floor of the garage, hoping to get a picture, but the skyline obscured it. By the time I left, the risen moon had lost its near-to-the-horizon majesty.

Now, at midnight, it lights the dark, turning the snow in the backyard to a pale silver gray, reflecting what's left of the day.

The painting is by artist Edward Bannister, a black American who was born in Boston and died in 1901.

Flat butt day

Today was a flat butt day.

What, inquiring minds may or may not wish to know, is a flat butt day? (Clever, perceptive minds may already have a clue.)

A flat butt day is a work day whose end finds your butt having been, for seven or eight hours, in near-continuous intimate contact with your desk chair, or other chairs your butt was required to kiss. Followed by a three-hour computer class. I believe the picture is clear here.

Not good for butt, body or soul.

I took the T home and walked the 1.3 miles home to move blood in my veins, air deep into my lungs and shake the overload from my brain.

I like the pleasant distraction of walking past the shops, peering into windows at bridal dresses, purses, fabric bolts, jewelry, purses, late evening coffee drinkers, garden pretties and people chatting in bars and restaurants. 

As I leave the business district, there is still the busy rush of traffic and white brightness of streetlights against the night sky.

Down a hill, I can hear the high school band practicing.

Pretty soon, I'm striding down my street and the night gets quiet. There is a stray sound of piano being practiced, a dog barking, the sound of my own feet, encased in thick tennis shoes, thudding softly against asphalt.

Finally, a deep breath.

Home.