Wildflower Stew

The thing I liked best about living in the country was the continual accompaniment of the rhythms of the natural world. In early morning, before dawn, I would wake to the soft sounds of doves calling me out of sleep into a pearly light as ethereal as a feather. I would quietly make a cup of coffee and slip out the door to walk to the river.

Deer would come down to the river, delicate and alert, reverently bowing their heads to the water and drinking, stepping back quickly to look around at the slightest sound, then bowing to drink again, and then they would all together, as if on cue, rush suddenly away.

The great blue heron would appear, stately, staking out an auspicious place in the shallows to stand and peer for hours and then like a flash to dip and catch a wayward fish that had flickered into its pool, swallow it down, and solemnly return to motionless standing until it tired of that spot and, with a hideous squawk that sounded like it could have come from a prehistoric dinosaur, rise up on its magnificent 6-foot wide wingspan and swoop away down the river.

As the sun broke the horizon, the song birds would chime in. First the tentative calls and twits, then the full-throated operettas of those who were so disposed. For about an hour the resident bird population and those passing through put on the morning concerto as I put on the morning breakfast and began my work for the day. This was also the hour for the insects to appear, a fact I would be particularly aware of if my work for the day was in the garden, and the bird/insect feeding cycle would begin.

The red tailed hawks and vultures would appear later after the sun had been up for awhile, hitting the thermals for warm up rounds, getting ready for a day’s cruising for fresh meat or last night’s road kill. By noon only the buzzards would remain, the carnal garbage collectors, an ever present reminder of the nearness of death in paradise.

Late afternoon would bring cicadas, a signal to me to start winding down my day and think about dinner. On a good year, cicadas rock the woods. I love them. To my ears they are the string section just tuning up. After a rain they are joined by the syncopated percussion of the frogs and the persistent whine of mosquitos. Which drives us inside where we hear the persistent hum of fans.

Finally the twilight comes. Deer graze across the way on the far side of the pasture, watchful but at peace. The cicadas fade out, the air cools and a soft breeze comes up. Fireflies peek out here and there sending indecipherable messages as if a few stars had fallen and tried to speak. I look up in the clear summer sky, a carpet of diamonds unfolds. As above, so below.

Rebecca Swan
Summer 07