A Tide of Swallows

Even as the grass dries and the flowers shrivel, fresh red blooms from the gladiola remind me that newness is always possible. It was another busy day today, followed by a zoned-out evening sitting by the open window and listening to the night move.

Sometimes when I am hard at work in the summer, windows thrown open, I am interrupted from my self-absorption by sparrows on the wire looking in at me, and am momentarily lifted out of out time by the sun-kissed white of their brown-freckled bodies, by their cocked heads and curious pinpoint eyes and I want nothing more than to fly away with them on their journey. At the close of a suddenly successful week, we again walked to dinner and made more plans for the future as the busy lives of Seattle in summer continue.

And there it was, the perfect summer afternoon and evening, hot but breezy, the passage of time slowed to a crawl, flickers, juncos and jays in the broadleaves, swallowtails on the wing, the sprawling grassy earth, and the feeling of the day cooling and the twilight wind arriving, my skin alive with sensation and freedom. Today was our third annual attendance to a party known as Crab Fest where we gathered with our friends to eat and drink and play bocce until late into the evening and I experienced an entire day of relaxation and peace and laughter.

There are few things better in the summer than taking a Sunday nap on the sofa, letting the birdsong and the breeze wash over you and fill your subconscious.cAnother busy week comes to a close, another moon cycle begins, and my mind turns to the challenges and gifts of August, my upcoming anniversary and an immensely welcome return to Canada.

Here in the PNW, the hottest part of each day is late afternoon, the nights in summer extend their light seemingly forever, and August becomes the month where the sun comes fully into its power, casually brushing aside any bravely encroaching clouds to burn both skin and grass from brilliant blue skies. A late start to the day had me scrambling for sense and made me realize that I have to get back to my regular routines, something I battle with constantly but something I know to be the healthy, happy choice.

A background sound tickled the edge of my brain with familiarity and caused me to rush from my home with binoculars in hand to watch the osprey overhead, the spread of those grey-banded arched wings, the shine of that white belly and feathered pantaloons, the compact falcon head with the the intense eyes and curved beak that announced his coming with singular piercing calls. Our development environment was down most of the day, which gave me the opportunity to expand into something that wasn’t screen and numbers in the middle of a week.

In the fading light, against the midnight blue, two tiny shadows chased the invisible;  the world of words fled from me as the bats traced their circuitous paths through the night sky. I spent a wonderful evening listening to poetry read by a good friend, and then stayed up far too late because for some reason it always feels like I deserve it.

When a cool and overcast day appears in the middle of July or August, it’s as if Seattle is reminding us that it is a place of rain and abundance, of thick pine and ocean salt, and that the gift of sunshine and heat is something to be appreciated in its impermanence for it is only a summer romance. I’m ending the week, all but a day of it, in some productivity finally, and preparing for the next phase of seasonal chaos planning tomorrow night.

Three crows spent the afternoon loudly arriving and departing repeatedly as if they were waiting for something to happen, and eventually either having witnessed what they wished to witness or decided that it was no longer worth their time, wheeled off towards their northern roost. I had a sporadic day as well, full of technical misfires and fruitless pursuits, but it was largely saved by a surprise meeting with a good friend and an hour spent talking excitedly about deep matters in our parked car outside Value Village.

Oh little dog, you of eighteen miles and then eighteen more, I relate to your refusal to move further, having turned the wrong way and walked into the endless East myself, but I later found you on the reclaimed trellis bridge high above the tumbling river just as I found myself making friends with the banded-eyed chipmunks and the slinking black slugs, as you and I both dropped our expectations. We walked six and a half miles today on a hike misfire, my foot has stopped working and one of my shoulders cracks when I breathe, but in the end I returned feeling surprisingly expansive and accomplished and touched by the experience of just letting myself be.

The moon, a sliver of white carved into the midnight, a faint pale globe fading into the morning horizon, seems always visible in the heart of the summer, readying itself for the big show to come. After our hike, I could barely walk and so spent the day moving little and thinking about bodies and future kindness.

I love the loud birds, and this newly-arrived pair of Stellar’s Jays are at the pinnacle of their game, strutting around on the high wires with their black mohawks slicked back, sharp faces ready to unleash a piercing warning at any provocation. The week began with a complete failure of discipline and a breakdown of routines, which threw my Monday into the wildlands of odd eating times, evening naps, and general malaise and stress.

As the heat rises, I prepare for the sun to beat down in full force on open-mouthed crows and panting dogs and for everything to fall as quiet as those summer nights as a child, when I climbed trees in the dark and found solace in their wooden arms, closed and safe in a hollow of branches. It’s another strange day of missed routines as I try and fail to find some rhythm in life but fall prey to that backward planet again.

I stood watching the Moon through my binoculars, tracing the jagged rock near the dark boundary curve, my gaze sailing over vast, blue-grey lunar seas as the Earth cooled, venting the heat from the day against my bare legs. All talk, all thinking is about the weather and everything has slowed down to a near stop of sweat and hot skin and desire to escape to air-conditioned corners.

The smoke from Canadian wildfires has cast the evening sky a purplish grey; the haze hangs low and ominous over the city, oozing like a wispy shadow into every crevice as the smell of some distant destruction and renewal warns of shifting climates. We found out today that we may need to cancel our upcoming Canadian trip, and I am struggling to hold everything loosely, even if it means staying home.

There was nothing but heat today, pressing on every wall and window, filling up every thought until there was no real indoors, only the outdoors covered by a flimsy ceiling and held together by the barest belief. We walked to dinner tonight mainly because it was past time for a summer beer after this week, and for some reason walking home was far more meandering and shaky.

On the edge of the lake, beyond the lily pads quivering from the passage of hidden fish, as the buoy bell echoed distantly in the grey stillness, the eagle ruffled his feathers and closed his eyes and I thought of the ocean, of the river otter passing beneath the waves, and of the long breath of calm that followed. We spent an adventurous Anniversary unexpectedly hiking four and a half miles through the forest, being chased by a hornet that attacked and stung my wife, reading our vows at sunset as the sploosh of waves and a lone seal witnessed, and then having a sumptuous meal together before heading home tired and happy.

The heat builds up against the doors and rushes into the darkened theater like a flood of summer memories as we step outside, and for a moment my feet feel bare and there is bark under my fingers, the smell of chlorine and freshly-mowed lawns and the scoldings of blue jays before I am brought back from my midwestern childhood to the smoke haze on the western pines and the kiss of salt in the air. We celebrated our 8th wedding anniversary today with a movie and some connective time and a large dose of love.

The sun is relentless, drying the grasses to flattened piles of brown hay, charring black the edges of plants, parching the color from the poppies and the hydrangeas; and yet tiny yellow blossoms bloom in every shaded corner as the earth continues to push life upwards. Another week arrived with a re-dedication to returning my swampy brain to some semblance of control over the shadow emotions and to finding a path through into the future.

Under the blood-red moon, the tuxedo cat sprawled on his white belly in a patch of moonlight, staring at the sky from the cracked sidewalk, only offering me the smallest tail swish of recognition as I walked by him. As I stopped work this evening, one of the arms of my chair broke and this was enough to topple my strict routine into shambles.