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