Bluebirds

A flock of bluebirds has been clustered in the trees near Deer Creek this winter, sometimes along one road, sometimes around the corner on another. Seeing them makes me happy, the males so blue-backed and rosy breasted, the females so subtle and all of them seeming so competent in their environment. They seem so unconcerned by my presence, and they bless me with their beauty and certainty. I always pray them a blessing in return. I wonder, does such a heartfelt wish matter when I find so few additional ways to act on my desire for their well being?

This morning when I visited the creek the sun was still bright and warm on my face. That whispery promise of spring. I was bundled up, though, with my flannel lined jeans and wool socks, turtle neck shirt, sweatshirt, winter coat, scarf and double layer of stocking hats, for the air still carries a bite, and the earth is snow covered in spite of the melting since Tuesday morning. There is even still snow in the trees. Now the clouds have moved in, and the forecast is for rain, rain, rain.

I walked slowly because my energy is low. There is a gift in every burden (as well as a burden in every gift) and the gift of slowness is more opportunity to notice what is in any particular place. I stopped a while by the rapids and rested against the trunk and roots of the familiar maple that leans out over the water there.

That tree has grown there as long as I've lived here, and has accepted my presence without complaints that I can hear. It goes through its cycle year after year, bud to full leaf and seeds, to summer breath, to fall golden and back to winter bare like now. It may be swept down one of these years, as so many trees are that lean over the currents of that creek.

There are some large rocks newly shifted into position in the rapids, one washed clean and speckled in its newness. Just in that little section, the water looks blue in some places, green in others, and tawny clear brown in others where it is shallow and running over variegated brown pebbles.

I know the tree, the rocks, the birds. Is there a consciousness that knows me in turn? I've read that crows can tell individual humans apart from each other, and perhaps it's true, for even the crows seem to accept me as a familiar, non-threatening element in their environment. But perhaps the consciousness that knows me in this place is that of the homo sapien sapien, the one who knows she knows, the one who walks in my shoes.