March 29, 2012


The morning awakens in auditory strata: A dog that barks at dawn. Then the mourning doves (“Mourning - as in ‘I’m sorry you’re dead” - as Walter once explained), and their tiresome boo-hooing. The gathering low roar of distant traffic. Finally the mockingbirds, now at the peak of their spring tour.

There’s a strong songster, Gilly’s’ progeny perhaps, who serenades me awake. He seems to prefer that I listen obliquely, growing shy if I listen with too much focus. How he knows this, I haven’t a clue. So I lie in bed a while, pretending to listen to the mourning doves (who like the attention), while surreptitiously listening to the mockingbird. Then the coffee gurgling in the kitchen sputters and roars, bringing the morning music, and the freshly minted day’s peculiar and fleeting lucidity, to a close.