Trailer Park Karma

Praying for Owls & Other Loved Ones

On another breathtaking evening walk down the road, the dog and I spotted the creature who'd been making a ruckus for the past two nights. T'was an owl.

It was too far away for my aging eyes to discern its type, but the bird seemed about two-feet in length. It stared back at us, perched on a tree branch, squawking every minute or so. It's feathers were ruffled, and I wondered if it was a youngster crying out for food from a hunting parent. Perhaps the bird's disheveled state was due to its being wounded, from battling a snake or a hapless encounter with some other creature. Maybe he was just messed up from partyin with a girl owl.

As I do -- and always outside earshot of my neighbors -- I spoke to the creature, quietly, with as much warmth as I could muster without feeling like a complete eyelash-batting airhead. I mean, I know they don't understand me, and I'm keen on the fact that the main reason animals sit as if listening to me is because they're sizing up whether or not they need to split the scene fast or lunge in my direction. I get that. I still talk to them. It's for me.

Eventually, I had to leave so the creature who's truly dependent on me could get his exercise, smell the wild scents, and otherwise feel like there's more to life than a bowl of kibble and our front porch.

So to help me separate from the owl -- something I have a hard time doing, ya see -- I uttered a prayer.

I've been praying a lot lately out here.

A staunch agnostic, I don't often pray to a deity, but sometimes I do. Can't hurt. Like The Editor says, it's all magic. I ain't scared o' magic.

I'm clear, even in the midst of prayer, that this is an activity I do for me. Sorta like talkin to animals. Whether or not my utterance has any impact at all on the world, and specifically on the loved one in mind... that ain't up to me.

If there's anything I'm very clear on, it's that I am not god. Happily. It's all I can do to raise a kid and a few pets and plants. The rest ain't on my shoulders, mercifully.

But if there is a god -- and as a devout agnostic, the only thing I really believe is that anything is possible -- I toss my two cents up there now and then in hopes that the magic works. For the owl. For my loved ones. For folks I don't know. When I can't be around to nurture in person, I figure it's the least I can do. Often, even when I'm around, it's all I can do.

Then I can go on my way.

Learning to Love the Haters & Chicken Livers

Hate brings great misfortune,
hate churns up and harms the mind;
this fearful danger deep within
most people do not understand.

~Itivuttaka 3.88

I need to start making a list of disclaimers about my claim to being 'buddhist'... sorta like I did on a socializing website after six years there of silly questions from inquirers who obviously never read people's actual profiles. I finally put up disclaimers there like this one, in response to the oft-written query, "Oh, you're a writer! What books have you written?":

* No, I haven't written a book.

* I write copy. Whatever pays. Look around and you'll notice words all over the place -- online, in magazines and newspapers, on the radio and TV, on billboards, flyers, postcards, mailers, emails... There's a whole army of us out there writing that stuff.

It's worked to screen out conversations that drag to a standstill when curious folks finally "get" that I'm no tortured author dwelling as a country hermit. Kinda works the same as expressing intentions and expectations up front, like with your toddlers when you say, "We're going to Aunt Martha's now, and if you start to dig holes in her backyard with the dogs, you'll have to come and sit with the grown-ups." Or when they're a bit older and you have to warn, "If you run around telling all our new neighbors that we're buddhist, at least some of them are going to think you're odd." Something like that.

The universe is full of rules, written and not so much. Just because you don't know all the rules, doesn't mean they're not there. And certainly it holds that just 'cause you don't like the rules, don't mean that the consequences of ignorin 'em ain't gonna git ya. Peace and anarchy simply don't go together.

Sometimes, I get the feeling that because I'm buddhist, some relatively-like-minded folks think my place and space are good for slamming other ways of doing things.

Now, I recognize -- or rather, choose to believe -- that the situations and people I encounter are "mirrors" for me; if not out and out put there by some sorta Force, at least I can sure use 'em that way.

And yeah, I've been called "hater" a time or two in my life. Or three. Or more. A lot. Just ask some of my longest-time friends... I'm forever amazed that they've hung in there with me 'til this day.

So I understand that tiny 'ping' in my ears when I hear hateful comments about religion. It's really just a thunk on the skull from the Universe (or God, or Mother Nature, or whatever...) And boy, oh, boy, am I ever glad for the opportunity to learn some more.

Ergo, this here Disclaimer is for Me. You're welcome to consider it, and I wish that you would, given that this here corner of the Internet IS sorta my house. I love you, I do. But please don't poop in my livingroom.

Disclaimer: Just because I'm buddhist doesn't mean I hold ill will in my heart for any other religion. Not a single one that I've heard of yet. And furthermore, I do not whittle at the value of my acceptance -- NOT tolerance, but acceptance -- of all other religions and spiritual points-of-view by tacking on clauses that call exception to certain individuals or groups of individuals who claim to hold any beliefs.

In fact, looks to me like I need to start loving all you fellow haters out there. Bless your hearts and mine.

So, now that we're all about holding hands and singin kumbaya again, and continuing with our recent trend toward International Trailer Parkery, here's a quick recipe from a compadre in the onward march toward global compassion. If you don't already love chicken livers, consider it.
Just consider it:

Valentina Ievleva's Ukrainian Chicken Livers

1/2 sliced onion
1/4 cup oil
chopped garlic
about 1/2 pound of chicken livers
1/2 cup to a cup sour cream, preferably non-fat

In frying pan, cook onion in oil over medium heat until soft.

Stir in chopped garlic & chicken livers. Cover with sour cream. If you're using high-fat cream, add a little bit of water.

Cover pan and cook on low heat for about 15 minutes. To test done-ness of livers, stick a fork in them -- if the fork comes back out easily, they're done.

Add a little extra garlic just at the end of cooking to boost the delicious garlic-y flavor. Awesome over rice.

Running While Seeing

I'm not much of a runner. Running in my old burb was like running on a treadmill -- diligently maintained running path with manicured landscaping, flat as a train rail surface, friendly folks jogging and walking dogs and pushing babies...

The whole scene felt so safe that I was comfortable running blind. Now, in my new world, everything's changing; I'm even using my eyes differently.

In the summer, when we like to fry our eggs and bake our cakes on the driveway in that neck o' the woods, I typically waited until well after nightfall to do my little mile or two. I may be a Morning Girl in attitude, but the same does not apply to my aging joints. Besides, I actually see better (a very relative statement) without my glasses at night, and sans-spectacles is my preferred running mode. Who needs steamy lenses and sweaty noseguards sliding down their face?

That's right -- I, of the Nearly Nightblind variety and clearly dependent during daylight on bifocals, used to run without my glasses.

Besides the physical comfort, the main reason I ran blind was because of the resulting meditative qualities. It's a lot easier to 'om' along the path, or even zone out to the music blasting directly into your brain, when you're not distracted visually. What's the worst that would happen to someone with eyesight like mine? Squash a pile o'dog business?
 
In our new country digs, that's not the case. There's myriad reasons for my new accoutrement, that is, my glasses.

  First, there's The Dog. My sweet Cat-Killing Terrier would really like to get ahold of those darlin little deer in the backyard and my neighbor's chickens smell awfully good to him, too. So he's tethered at every step he takes out either door of this house. It's only fair that we accordingly run him at least once, if not twice, a day.

Running a dog without being able to see just generally doesn't bode well anywhere. It's one thing if I jeopardize my own safety, but it's not fair to run the dog into a parked car. Not that I see that poorly. Yet. Besides, here, the worry isn't vehicular so much as fangicular. (I just made that up.) The snakes (which are reportedly more plentiful this year than ever before) are nicely camouflaged with the dirt road we run. 

I tried to run without glasses this morning. Got down my driveway into the road when I gave up and put em back on. Can't do it.

Realizing yet another lesson in This Is The Way It Is Now, it dawned on me. Everything, in fact, dawned on me, just the way the beams creep over the horizon before you can see the sun. This was more than a matter of constantly pushing slippery metal up the bridge of my nose; running while wearing glasses equals being forced to deal with the input of visual stimuli.

While I have been known to occasionally close my eyes during a good run, I'm sure I've never done it for even as long as a minute. Since a primary goal on these country runs is to avoid canine-reptile encounters, closing my eyes won't serve me very well.

So there I am: jogging along and sweeping the road with my eyeballs, carefully surveying every patch of grey, white, and brown for patterns that merge into a triangular head with fangs or a tail with a rattle. And chanting.

My new runner's vision is occasionally misted by fog. The sun's rays can be blinding when they reflect off the shards of ground shale that make the road here. My silent chants are often disrupted by my mind's intrusions like, "Would ya look at that sunset!"
 
Sure, running while seeing affords me heart-expanding vistas and white light broken into colors through a prism of vapors. But corrected vision also affords glimpses of little deaths, tiny bodies decaying to feed other tiny bodies. And I still don't know what's over that next rise.
 

Plenty of Garden & Coleslaw Risotto, Too

I am not much of a storyteller. In junior high, when I was doing just about every thing that a girl my age shouldn't do, my creative writing teacher gave me the highest compliment I could imagine at the time: she said I wrote like J.D. Salinger and S.E. Hinton. (She also suggested I may want to be a tad less permissive with the expletives uttered by my characters.)

You can imagine how it felt to hear that for a girl who had just learned to love The Catcher in The Rye and The Outsiders. Sort of explains my initial intention to write only as T. L. Morris, which is what I eventually had embossed in silver on my senior yearbook. I thought, like Hinton, that I could bridge a few gender chasms by not revealing my female-ness to readers. That was before I understood the income potential of bylines... (Then there's the whole point that my first name goes both ways.)

If you pay attention, you'll notice that both Salinger and Hinton focused a lot on dialogue. Their stories unfolded by what people said and did, not so much by third-person narrative. At least, that's the part of their writing that struck me back then.

It's funny, but I'm not a chatty person, in 'real' life. Not "a phone person" and not good at social gatherings unless I have a job to do. I know some folks will find that hard to believe because I've learned how to fake it pretty well. But the truth is, small talk bores me to tears and to me, it's almost all small.

Now, writing... different story. Obviously. Are your eyelids drooping yet? Not much at storytelling, but rambling on and on... I can do.

Another funny note (not "funny ha ha") is that my life has recently been inundated enhanced by friends who love stories and storytelling. Makes me feel like quite the wet rag at times.

I remember telling my creative writing teacher (Mrs. Thornton? -- see? telling stories requires memory chips I no longer have...) that I was no good at story writing. Told her that my mind just doesn't work that way. I'm too entrenched in reality to make stuff up. Ask my beleaguered parents, who probably wished I was a better liar.

That's not to say I'm more honest than the average person. I'm just not good at creating fiction. Think of it as a sensory integration issue, if that helps. Besides, I've always had me plenty of reality to write about -- never seen the point in telling someone else's tales. Whip the real events of a life with a whole lotta what people utter, blend it with some outward bound thinking and metaphor, and you've got a literary garden. In my mind.

And about those storytelling friends of mine... I may like being around 'em, but I'm not that big on listening to their stories. That may sound harsh, but think of it as ADD, if that explains it. I like their energy, I love their minds and the way they work 'em, but I'd rather sit with them quietly and listen to the birds.

I have plenty of garden to weed.

... and food to cook, like this:

Coleslaw Risotto

1/3 head of cabbage, chopped small

1 medium carrot, shredded

1/4 red onion, chopped fine

1 tsp caraway seeds

2 tbsp veg oil

1 cup arborio rice

3 cups chicken broth


In medium pot, cook cabbage, carrot, onion, and caraway seeds in veg oil until onion is clear, stirring constantly.

Add rice. Stir and cook for about 5 minutes, or until rice starts to brown. Add broth one cup at a time, stirring after each until liquid is absorbed.

Which Came First, Welfare or Comfort?

    On the way out to my new place, there are plenty of exits off the interstate that lead to places most folks will never see -- like Welfare and Comfort.

    It's sweet that the towns named Comfort and Welfare are so close together. As I was writing this note, I asked one of my editors, "Which comes first off the highway, Comfort or Welfare?"... well. You can guess his answer.

    A few days before that, I was talking with another editor of mine about welfare and comfort. Not the towns.

    We'd just foraged skillfully through a Super Supermarket about 50 miles away, stowing the precious cargo in iced-down coolers and then replenishing my pantry and fridge. I think she likes how I buy stuff -- the what and why of my grocery choices -- because she mentioned how she'd get perturbed back in the days when she ran a register and folks would buy hamburger meat for their dogs with food stamps.

    Funny. It was just then that I realized it was time to make the rice and chicken for my own canine.

    So I devoted probably another 15 minutes of my poor editor's life to the sob story of How I Finally Applied For & Got Food Stamps, in an effort to clarify that such tales are chockfulla Other Sides o' the Coin & Hidden Facets. You can hardly ever believe just what you see.

    Like, did you know that if you have two cars and apply for food stamps (now called Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program, or SNAP), they won't give you any benefits until you sell one of those cars?

    You're only allowed one car per household when you're getting SNAP.

    Like, did you know that in big cities, you're watched over by guards with rifles while you stand or sit in line for a full day with the other hungry folks, waiting for your appointment to look someone in the eye so you can go over the 21-page application you had a friend fax to the State office over three months ago?

    You get finger-printed, too.

    And did you know that while you can't use food stamps to buy laundry detergent, bath soap, or any other non-edible but often-deemed-necessary items of daily living -- or pet food -- you damned sure can stock up on candy and soda?

    That's right: your tax dollars at work, folks, can rev up the diabetes rate in no time while turning transportation, cleanliness, and kindness to animals into unreachable luxuries.

    (I already hear rumblings of 'If you can't afford 'em, don't have 'em...')

    Comfort then Welfare. Welfare then Comfort.

    The answer: "It all depends on which direction you're coming from."

    Now it's time for a Mini-Retreat!:

    When faced with the vicissitudes of life,
    one's mind remains unshaken,
    sorrowless, stainless, secure; 
    this is the greatest welfare.

    Sutta Nipāta 2.271
  
    (with gratitude from
    Pariyatti, a non-profit organization supported by purchases and contributions.)

A Gander If E'er There Was

Sittin on my porch looking at the haven I'm providing for snakes, waiting for morning's rays to evaporate the diamonds on the grass so I can assault this Garden of Eden with a petrol-powered blade-swingin monster. And thinking about sex.

Okay, Daddy, you can go ahead and scratch this particular post offa your list of things to read now.

Inspiration comes in all forms and at varying speeds. I guess sometimes, the spark that pushes creativity will sneak up on someone; not so much for me. I've always been floored, waylayed in a big way by -- okay, I'll say it -- men.

Hi. My name's Tracy and I'm a sucker.

I'll leave you to your own disturbed thoughts there for a minute. Then remember that I have family and even church friends who follow this blog.

Where did that connotation of that word come from anyway?

The meaning is gullibility.

Sociolinguistics was one of my favorites classes in college. Too bad you can't make a living as a sociolinguist. I guess this is as close as I can get -- amused by words and blathering on about them in public. (If you're like me, here's a nice little snackpage on our beloved Wikipedia...)

Take "gander" as an example.

There's "taking a gander" as in surveying that shin-deep yard of mine.

There's "what's good for the goose is good for the gander" in terms of all things being equal. And since my bigger self likes to try and hold on to the belief that what is, is, and therefore it's good, I wind up thinking "equal" is just a mindgame we play with ourselves anyway.

And finally, of course, there's the thoroughbred horse who won a race but was disqualified for being riderless. Go figure. (Watch what a spirited, albeit "a bit problematic" creature can do when nature and nurture combine just so, and the controls are taken off.)

The other day, one of my editors (yes, I did just use the plural form of 'editor') pointed out a difference in consequential yard care when comparing the burbs to the country. There, you get letters and fines, maybe even taken to court, for not mowing your lawn just so. My own H3 used to carefully mow the front "on the bias" -- so help me. (Some people are more afraid of broken rules than others.)

Here, though, the consequence of not keeping your green growin' stuff clipped short is one of your neighbors' calves being killed by a rattlesnake.

So far, I need both hands to count the number of new neighbors who've mentioned the unusually high abundance of long, slithering, poisonous creatures they've killed this year. Kinda funny, since none of them really know me yet... But then, there's been even more of my recent acquaintances who've assured me that a gun is a must-have item around these parts.

Now, I truly do love snakes and have no desire to do them harm, whether via blasted pellets or a hoe to the neck (do snakes have necks?), but I also don't want to be harmed by them. So I'm thinkin the answer is to not give the sneaky biters any deep stuff to hide in -- a little extra toilin' on my part, but that way I can see 'em as they pass through on to the grasses of the less vigilant.

"A gander if e'er there was," he said. [Editor's note: "...pretty sure that snakes are all neck."]
No, not him. Him.
Next?

You Could Call It A Sabbatical

Or running for the hills. Whatever you choose to call it, however you frame it, I'm leaving the city and its burbs for a decidedly different lifestyle.

It's been pretty amusing, the reactions from folks who figured since I've been here almost 50 years I'd just stay put.

Voicemail from my mom, upon hearing the news via email to my dad: "This is your mother. I need to know what you're doing. Call me. Please."

In-person remark from my son's dad: "You don't have to move half-way around the world."

My supportive editor: "So. You're gonna do it."

The amazing thing, folks, is that I didn't leave before now. You can thank a number of people for that fact, for whatever it's worth. Sister Martha Ann's kids are the first three reasons I'm still here. Then you can render gratitude (or blame) to H2's employment in the 90's. Then there's The Boy, of course, and his world. There ya go -- about 24 years of reasons to stay put, all behind me now.

Well, of course, The Boy and his world continue, but he's a big guy now. The country'll do him good. He can always seek suburban solace when necessary (and possible for his parents.)

The point is -- the truth is -- that I haven't stayed here because I love my surroundings. Sure, I think I own the joint in partnership with my sisters, but that's not the same as wanting to be here. I've breathed more deeply in the hills and near running water any time my karma has afforded me a visit to such. It's time to get more of it.

Sure, there are things and people I'll miss. A lot. I can't swear that I won't have a few nights compounded by a sore heartache. Plenty of times I'll be nervous about this or that. In fact, a big part of why I'm able to pull this move off is because I'm thinking of it as temporary, until it proves otherwise. Like I've told a few, we'll see if I fall in love with livin in the sticks.

It's an adventure. In the unmistakable style of a girl born in The Republic. Nothing more.

Fewer Than 15 Minutes: My YouTube Moment

This is a story about perseverance, acquiescing, changing direction, and being okay with all of it.

I sing. Not so much in the shower, because I can't stand the decibels there, but in church, with a group of friends (led by H2). I sing while looking through the skylight, up at the pines that tower over our little church, over the congregation's faces. At least I'm no longer standing with my side to them like when I couldn't bear to see that there's an audience out there.

I used to do what's called "public speaking," back in the day when I was saving the world for a living. I did it for years and always hated it. So I stopped. If I had a nickel for every person who's tried to convince me since that I "can do it"... Nope, I tell them. Not interested.

But singing is another story. I won't ramble on too much about why and how, but singing is a whole lot like channeling someone or something else for me. It may be me who's standing up there, but it's not me who you're hearing.

Fortunately, The Editor likes my singing, or at least, he does a damned good job of making me think he does. Works for me.

One of the ways he harps, pardon me, bestows his admiration on me is with frequent suggestions that I "YouTube" myself.

Note: I don't play an instrument (other than an autoharp, poorly, which doesn't count in my book), so any video of me singing would necessarily be acapella. Sort of triples the fear factor for me and [Editor's note: what I imagine] the grimace factor [Editor's note: might be] for listeners.

I finally succumbed to his pressure one night. He was out of town and it'd been awhile since we'd had the pleasure of each other's company in a romantic way. I was alone while The Boy hung out with his dad elsewhere, and there was nary an item on my calendar. Plus, the mail had delivered one of those checks that puts my shopping cart over the beer edge.
Add to all that the fact that it was The King's birthday, and you have a recipe for YouTube-in.

I dutifully put my heart in my hand and recorded myself singing one of Elvis' sweeter songs. 

You'll never see it. The Editor never did either. Nor will anyone. The situation unraveled along these lines:

After countless takes, I uploaded a video, marked it private, and emailed a link to my favorite Editor. I clearly recall holding my breath upon clicking 'send'. The Editor being on a whirlwind tour of his mother's home, the time to sit still and listen to my sappy vocal meanderings never presented itself. I bolstered my confidence with the idea that he likely is attracted to other facets of my personality, so my YouTube debut wouldn't make or break this relationship. Then he spent an entire day and night wandering the skies of the midwest, after missing his first flight and playing the Stand-by Game. I instructed him not to view the link while in airports, but not because it was naughty. Eventually we learned that my designating the video "private" wasn't a good idea, since I'd sent him a basic link (which wouldn't allow him access.) Two days after uploading the still-unseen video, I retrieved a specially coded link and emailed it.

Finally, three days after I'd mustered the nerve to sing on camera and plaster the Internet with the results, The Editor let me know again that the new link wasn't working either. That notice came around the same time that he decided to share with me some details on his beloved ex-wife's penchant for sharing erotica with him.

Suddenly, my YouTube premiere seemed way out of place -- couldn't quite put my finger on the squirmy feeling I had inside, but I surely knew how to remedy it. I scrambled to the URL and clicked "delete" without a second thought. I felt clean again.

There're a whole lot of things that shouldn't be done or said. Then, there are a few things in this world that are simply better left done in the presence of another human. It's good to feel clear about that.

To Doctor Means "To Deceive". Look It Up.

Not many folks know that I used to be a doctor. In my grandmother's eyes, anyway.

I was the lucky grandkid who got to survey oozing boils on request.

How'd I earn such a privilege? My dad's mom was a country girl surviving in the city, all 70-odd years of it before she died in her 90's. She demonstrated how you really can't take the small country town out of the girl. I don't think she did it on purpose. It was just her nature to continually be both perplexed and mesmerized by the world whirring around her while she made biscuits.

So when I -- a promising young home economist -- was required to complete an "internship" to secure my coveted college degree, it threw my Mamaw for a loop. She just knew that I was a physician in training.

She never quite understood it. But then, it's not easy for a lot of people -- especially country folk -- to grasp why on earth anyone would need to apprentice themselves for hands-on experience in daily life skills.

I bet you're all wondering now just what the heck this "internship" of mine consisted of...

So, anyway, I'm accustomed to the bewildered air of friends and even family who don't quite 'get' what I do for a living. Rather than feel compelled to explain in detail and at length, I like to think of their confusion as an opportunity to practice. It is (whatever it is I do), so it's good.

Onlookers were no less befuddled when I quit my social work career (and let me tell ya, some of y'all think weird thoughts about "social workers") to transform into a writer. Lest it sound like I'm doing some severe finger-wagggin in your direction, I should reveal that I, myself, didn't know what to call what I did for two years. If it weren't for some of my web-writing compadres, I wouldn't have thought to call myself a "writer" back in the day when most folks interacting on the Internet were dismissed as "geeks" and writing was something that was only bought and sold in print.

I still get to entertain some related FAQ's, even in this day and age of every missive being either duplicated or only available on your computer's screen. Back in the dawn of Internet time, the most common query from acquaintances was, "Oh, you're a writer -- have you written a book?" (Remind me someday to tell you how an older neighbor dissed my self-identification with "Oh, yeah! A writer. Aren't we all?") Now that most folks have caught up and figured out that someone is writing all the stuff they're reading online, they ask me, "What do you write?" Sounds simple enough. Most of the folks I run with understand the descriptions that come next. Some live happily in the dark still.

And then there are those who have some vague idea about how I'm spending my time. They're intrigued. Curious. Impressed even, sometimes. That's what they tell me, anyway, and I know they're not lying because they sometimes ask me to perform some of my occupational magic for them.

When my Mamaw asked me to "Take a look at this thing on my back," I would always look. Every time she asked. Sometimes I would respond to her worried "What do you think it is?" with a disclaimered diagnosis, always reassuringly benign. Sometimes I would bow out kindly with a murmur, "I'm not sure. Have you asked your doctor?"

That's what I do for blood-kin and loved ones. I look at their worrisome ugly stuff. I touch it if they think it's necessary. I render reassurance. Maybe offer an opinion, if they want one. Their comfort is my compensation.

This, Too, Shall... Oh, You Know

The bird's shrill call was blown into my kitchen on a breeze through the open door. A hawk, the one who lives in our neighborhood's undeveloped section, was making his presence known.

Earlier in the morning, I'd watched as two mystery fowl -- loons, I thought -- beat their wings against the morning's warm breeze, chased by our resident raptor.

Loons nest on the water. A few online conversations later, I learned they were likely whistling-ducks, formerly named "tree ducks," which explains the bundle of sticks and brush two-stories up in a five-story pinetree next door.

After being a privileged spectator of the winged chase, wherein the trio vanished on the other side of the neighbor's tall, tiled roof, I'd felt mildly reassured when the two prey returned, not to their nest, but back this direction to somewhere beyond. The whooshing of their broad wings was much slower, less syncopated than during their earlier flight from danger.

I returned to my work at the table and hoped no one was left behind in the nest. Their whirring chatter, unique to our neck of the suburb, was no longer heard.

Hours later, the hawk again called on the wind. No other bird dared sing.

At first, peering over the fence toward the nest for signs of life, and seeing none, my heart dipped. Countless springs have come and gone when I've scooped up fledglings and returned them or taken them to rehabilitators. I recalled one particular year long ago during which my cats were especially on target, keeping me on vigilant toes for weeks, and how a singing mother bird reminded me of my own lost little ones. I remember writing away the pain, or trying to, at least.

Fear for the birds' safety rose in me, yet scarcely a second passed when my heart responded with the comfort of transiency. They may be gone, and if not now, then later for sure.

Neither my documentation, written or photographic, nor extending to my son any legacy of my love for birds will make them stay.