Streams and Birds, or the Simple Joys of the Summer

I discovered that I can wade in "my" stream. I share it with the whole community, of course. Someone built low rocky dams across the flow, and the water, still abundant after the spring rains, creates small pools, knee-deep at best, with sand, or gravel, or rocks on the bottom. The green algae and moss are gone, either torn away by rushing stream earlier on, or cleared away by those anonymous magicians that made this summer gifts for all of us.

There is a family with kids splashing and playing with a colorful plastic ball, the Mom or Big Sister floating by on a neon-green inflatable chair. Cheerful music is barely a distant whisper as I walk by the next mini-pool: deeper, with more soft sand. Here, a pudgy boy is learning to swim.  I wade downstream along a narrow "trickle" in my old shoes, protecting my skin from cuts - I learned this from an ancient Tibetan folk-tale about a wise princess, who thought that shoes could be thrown out, but wounded feet were hard to mend. After some narrow straits and thicker bushes, I come across the third rocky dam, barely one to two feet tall, yet it blocks enough water for a pleasant respite from summer heat. I see small fish darting this way and that around my feet, and sunlight ripples reflect on the sand.  Mountain sunflowers, or "black-eyed Susans" grow on the side.

Perfection of a moment. These wild pools will disappear when the stream will dry out. It was dry for so long, I stopped going there, did not want to see ugly rocks festooned with dry, yellow moss. Now the wash is alive with visitors - five horse-riders went by, three dog walkers, their charges greeting me by the stream. The "owners" of this place are here, too - I saw a rabbit with white spot of a tail hopping away from the trail, the bees are so abundant this year, the whole wash, covered with California buckwheat, round white flowerheads, is abuzz with the noise of their wings.

I love bees since my childhood. My grandma had an ancient, huge linden tree to shade her yard growing right in the middle, dividing it in half, between the part where the orchard and garden ended, and that where the barn and farm machines were. My uncle made a small wooden bench to sit under that tree. It was all humming, so loud, full of bees. The linden honey is very light in color, like clover, with a different scent. The buckwheat honey is darker, aromatic, like Baltic amber. So happy to hear so many bees in California too.

They are mostly wild mason bees near my garden. I know because I find their handicraft on my roses. It seems of all petals found in my garden, some types of roses have the softest, most pliable leaves that can be made into cocoons for bee babies. I saw quite a few cutting a semi-circular shape out of the leaf, from edge to edge, leaving a strangely maimed leaf behind. I used to be angry seeing that damage, but we should all get along. The bees pollinate my fruit trees, and have made sure to give me lots of  grapefruit last year and plenty of pomegranate for next fall. I can only say, thank you, and let them take what they need.

Peaceful coexistence is the key. I am happy to share my garden with birds too. The finches make nests under the roof's eaves, on the porch and the patio. This year, their efforts were rewarded with babies. Two years ago, crows found the full next and went into frenzy - at least four were attacking at once, fighting, while the finch-parents in a panic were fighting back. But that was then, and now I'm happy with being such a good host to these tenants, that pay me with their song.

Here's a brand-new poem, celebrating their presence with gratitude and delight.

The Song of the Summer

The house finches are back! The four little ones disappeared
on Friday. Their crowded nest under the porch roof
was full of wide-open yellow beaks crying out for breakfast.
Now, blades of grass are scattered on my front steps.
The nest is empty. They learned how to fly.

I was happy yet sad, a bittersweet moment.
My home was their home. Here they grew up undisturbed
in the safety behind switches for Christmas lights,
on top of a white wooden beam. Gone to their new adventures
like my children to Boston, Tucson, San Diego.

Look, my finches are back! They returned to the only
home they knew to practice flight from rooftop to rooftop,
porch to garage, to the end of the driveway, the Japanese pine
that all birds love to perch on, its branches stretching
like fingers to the sky – an open palm of a tree.

Listen, my finches are back! They study their song
at six in the morning. It is simple, repetitive, one phrase
spiraling down through fluted eddies of pure music,
measuring the hours of summer. The song never changes,
I used to think it boring – just a step up from
the monotone chirping of sparrows, and yet –

My finches are back and are learning to sing.
Note by note, motif by motif, they try out brief snatches
of their Dad’s tune and fail, and fail, and fail again.
I did not know it was so hard. The three notes on the top
ti-ti-ti – these are easy – then, the babies stop, all confused.

“Let me show you, how it’s done!”  The patient parent sings
again and again. Young birds repeat the fluid patterns
in shy, quiet voices, growing louder, more confident, true –
until descending swirls tumble at top speed, like droplets
in a mountain stream, rushing on, sparkling in sunlight.

The finches are back.

(c) 2020 by Maja Trochimczyk

A Mystery Solved
.
"Look, a goldfinch is eating a yellow rose. Oh, wait,
it is an Oriole." Quite fittingly named. The rose is Orogold.
Oro, d'or, aurum - the most precious treasure.
It is all about brightness - flashy feathers in warm,
sunny hues contrast with black wings, head, tail.

Golden blossoms flourish among vibrant, green leaves.
The Oriole wife, in camouflage, opts for a much more
mundane meal, picking ants and rolly-pollies off the lawn.
Striped with gray, she is used to living in his shade.

Look, another Oriole nibbles on a silver-red, two-tone
rose of love, by the pomegranate. What a scene!
Vivid colors outlined against white walls of the shed
at the end of a pathway lined with river rocks.

Pity, I cannot take a picture. I drowned my cell phone
in a mountain stream on Sunday. An accident waiting
to happen for 13 years, since I fell down a flight of stairs
and did not break my arms in five places as doctors
thought, X-raying me to smithereens.  Instead, I lost grip
in my fingers. I drop things when I do not pay attention.

"Take a picture with your eyes, Mom." My daughter
used to say. Enamored with a brand-new camera, I'd stop
at every blooming rose, slowing down the progress
of a family walk. My kids are gone now. I wade in streams
alone. I have all the time in the world to explore the geometry
of petals, from every angle documenting for posterity
the ephemeral gold and scarlet rainbow.

I've always wondered why my fully-opened roses
has such shredded edges, why they lost perfection so quickly.
I see it today. I take a picture with my eyes - as I sip the steaming
amber tea from a gold-white porcelain tea-cup and admire
an Oriole eating the Orogold rose for a fancy, fragrant breakfast.

(C) 2020 by Maja Trochimczyk

How I Love My Sapphire, Azure, Periwinkle California Skies

Through most of January 2020, the California skies have been painted ugly shades of off-white and grey by planes spraying plumes of metal aerosols - to improve cell phone reception I'm told by some people, to control the population or make us all sick, as claim others, or to make it harder for "good" UFO to move around in our airspace, since their engines are electromagnetic and negatively impacted by all this metallic dust. Alas, the dust turns sunsets into magnificent color displays, just as smoke does after fires.

But some days are clear, with pristine azure above, or sapphire, or cornflower blue... There are so many hues of clarity in the winter sky! Even some snow on the mountains (in December 2019).

like lotus in the mud

mountaintops bloom

with pure snow white

 

The Grapevine hills 

dusted with fresh snow

for Christmas

 

icing on the cake of

brown earth under grass blanket

snowy hills  of Grapevine

The white cover was limited to a certain height, below the hills were quite brown.

Here are other lovely landscapes without the crisscrossing patterns in the sky. Taken on those rare days of clear skies, or in the morning before the next shift of chemtrail pilots went to work to ruin our views. I usually look out first thing in the morning and go out in my bathrobe to document the California beauty before doing anything else. So lovely. Bouganvillea in bloom, and my Camelback mountain (or is it Mt. Lukens, I never remember) with two California palms of my neighbors.

Rainbows

Let’s conjure up a lovelier, brighter rainbow
made of jewels, translucent and opaque –

They are you, head to toe, a rainbow “you”
of strength and insight, presence and delight

You are a rainbow of endless Light
You are a fountain of boundless Love

You are a red ruby of life
You are a pure amber of creation
You are a bright gold of strength
You are a green emerald of affection
You are a blue sapphire of truth
You are a clear amethyst of perception

You are a white diamond of light
You are a bright diamond of light

The jewel rainbow of your body 
The jewel rainbow of your mind

Grounded in the earth, 
reaching for the sky 
dancing among stars

you are Love – you are Light

with me

(c) 2020 from Rose Always - A Love Story (rev. 2020)

Sapphire

 My tiger orchid blooms again

for the third time already

It looks at me shyly

with topaz eyes

thinking, I’d remember

that night, that music

of togetherness –

Expand, expand, forever

expand – our hearts fill

with Cosmic Light of

a thousand Suns –

liquid and flowing

to heal and purify

We thank, we praise

the One Love

that blossoms

in emerald gardens

in sapphire flames

and bright tiger eyes 

(c) 2020 from Rose Always - A Love Story (rev. 2020)

 

Some of the trees turn gold in December, the Big Tujunga Wash is so lovely at this time.

 

silver and bronze bushes, 

gold poplars and ash trees -

the riches of my valley 

 

 cherries start to bloom 

spring and fall at once -

all seasons in the now

 

 Twin Palms and the hills - 

 perfection welcomes me

in the morning

Amber

Red gold of falling leaves

and amber, liquid amber

engulf me with the intensity

of our love for all seasons –

Even the invisible California winter

without snow, with bright sunshine

and birdsong each morning – in time

for Darjeeling tea, Columbian coffee

and naleśniki, flat Polish pancakes

with a touch of maple syrup from Vermont.

The whole world celebrates with us

for we know true meaning of attachment –

not the pink blush of infatuation –

not the wine-red rose of passion –

but this, only this – pure clarity

of azure skies – clear radiance of red gold

and amber – liquid amber 

(C) 2020 from Rose Always - A Love Story (rev. 2020)

amber and sapphire -

California colors 

for the end of time

San Francisco Marina on December 26, 2019 was so delightful.

 

fold the sails

after worldwide travel 

rest in sunlit bay

And so  sunny and clear was the Mahnattan Beach Pier earlier
in November one afternoon. The sky was a bit more purplish.

a spaceship hides

in a thick white cloud -

 looking at you, kid

 

 a flotilla of clouds

watches over the valley

in sapphire peace

what's left of the last

cloud will soon disappear -

sapphire summer 

 

the doves of love

line up in my sky

for a new song

twin voices, twin songs

twin loves in the sky -

dove heaven

 

This Afternoon

   You are the music while the music lasts.

               ~ T.S. Eliot, Little Gidding

The woodpecker measures time by the thickness

of tree trunks. Birds make nests, hidden from

hawks, safe from scrub jays. We wake in sunlight,

with twirling patterns still under our closed eyelids.

We listen to high-pitched calls of hummingbirds,

the random flutter of wings. We breathe in spring air

with smoothly flowing melodies of birdsong,

the sweetest of nectars. Waves crash on distant shores

of the Pacific. Stars appear dimly above the horizon,

that glows with the bronzed orange of departing Sun.

We live on the planet of children’s laughter.

We watch refractions of light in my sapphire ring,

on diamond dew drops that cling to blades of grass,

half-opened roses. We live on Earth of abundance

and beauty. We live on Earth of plenitude and calm.

There are no sorrows here, no worries.

No before, nor after. No plans. We take deep

breaths, count to eight, inhaling smiles to the tips

of our fingers, into our toes. I laugh. You laugh.

Crystalline peals echo through the Universe –

from galaxy to galaxy, star to star.

We grow and grow – infinite, gentler, wiser –

we understand all, embrace all, know all.

Perfection. Presence. Light.

(C) 2020 from Rose Always - A Love Story (rev. 2020)

Imagine – A Poem of Light

      … a cloud that scatters pearls

                                 ~ Rumi

Are you an apple? Or maybe

a ripe seed inside an apple of light?

You are snug and safe in the core of a torus

of light rays. You are wrapped in white

silk of light, rays come from your crown into your

toes, surrounding you with a bright cocoon,

of magnetic lines, six winged angels stand

on all sides, watching over you.

Are you, perhaps a fountain?

Your heart – the spring of goodness.

Liquid light pulses and flows from you.

Your heart-beat marks the smooth rhythm

of the sky of the sky of the sky of the sky.

The light! This miracle you forget about

every day as your blood carries your

heart light into every cell of your body.

Not a fountain? A star, perchance?

Or, maybe, two stars. A larger one brightly shines

 On your chest, its rays straight and dazzling,

multicolored sparkles dance in the brightness

of your aura. See, the second star blossoms

on your forehead, as radiant as the heart star

Here you are: an arc between stars,

a lucid rainbow of ancient gold  

still shining, shining, shining –

(C) 2020 from Rose Always - A Love Story (rev. 2020)

         

            Gifts

 …the necklace of songs, that you take as a gift

                                                   ~ Rabindranath Tagore

I gather sunlight

in my palms

to save for later

when it’s dark outside

and hope seems lost.

My hands are full

of brightness. 

I gingerly carry

the tangle of sunrays

in a procession of gifts,

down the aisle.

I gather sunlight

to keep close

to my heart,

and warm us

through cold

winter nights

with a rich glow

of sunfire.

(C) 2020 from Rose Always - A Love Story (rev. 2020)

hills slide from orange

into darkness below

periwinkle sky