Prompt: mindful wandering
#writers cpr
Haven't been doing much wandering these days. Unless my mind drifts off, which it frequently does, I really could be in a vegetative state. I sit here at the wooden table --- coincidentally convenient, because I need to knock on wood for my previous statement; tempting the gods has never been in my favour --- and am, very much, chained within the confines of this chamber. By my own will, rest assured.
The little nicotine goblin that's been living in my brain for, oh, somewhat more than a decade, has been trying all its torturing tricks to get my outside and deliver the fix. I, however, cannot comply, and sit in nigh petrification.
Outside, the sun shines from within a finally fragmented sky, causing the dampened garden to shimmer; residual vapor accentuates the golden rays, so falling like a mystic veil of mist. I cannot deny I crave this wintry air, so crisp. Yet I sit, and I sit still. I had missed the life that disappears come rain and dismal skies, and now, under the warmth of these golden rays and their brightest light, I see them all returning in abundance.
First are the tits, arriving in frivolous yellow and blue, all but skittish. Chirping, chatting. One after the other swoops in to attack the bird feeder, and the wide variety of snacks hung in the apple tree; the garden's centerpiece. They are messy eaters.
This, I know, because the red robin arrives, as it did every time before the nigh everlasting rain, to forage seeds and nut chips of the stone slabs underneath the feeder. I rarely see the red robin fly. Usually it pops up from under the hedge, whereto it will hop on right back once nourished. I have a soft spot for the little bugger, as he's the only solitary guest at the banquet. He doesn't seem to quite fit in. Earthbound. Quiet. Beautiful in soft red.
How stark, the contrast with the amok arriving; the flock of sparrows, faintly coloured, yet bold and brash. I sit still, unnoticed, and watch the tits and sparrows chatter and clash, until they find a system of alternated feeding that works for everyone. I watch the solitary robin having a ball, getting the spoils of war, so to say, for it wasn't really a war; more like a bit of bickering and trading brushes of feathers.
I would love to get up and wander the garden, but there'd be so much I'd miss. The blackbird couple has arrived, and much alike the red robin they forage whatever's been spilled from above off the floor and grass. I have seen this all before, and I've missed it, but I am particularly sitting still for the new guests:
There is a young pair of coots, that has traveled from the distant pond to the accidental banquet. Feathers shining in bluish black; a unique kind of vibrancy exposing their youth. That, and the apparent complete obliviousness of the cat that had been roaming that same garden every day of the year; and so, every winter, until this winter. He has matured, it seems, and as such, now prefers the comfort of a chair over bird meat.
I am fascinated by the agile coots, who hop on walls and planters; never spreading a wing, always maintaining perfect balance. They are the reason why I am sitting so still. As newcomers, they are extremely skittish. I lifted my coffee cup, and one noticed me through the window; gone they were. Luckily, returning forthwith. I stare at them, doing their young couple bonding things with a dumb smile on my face. Feeding each other, alternating guard duties; the ornamental wall offers the best overview, it seems.
It brings me joy, and solace. Even though the caffeine critter by now has ganged up with the nicotine goblin, and they are tearing me apart from the inside --- I am far from perfect; wish I still had that bluish sheen on my black feathers, metaphorically speaking --- but I fight these cravings off, and do not comply because I still feel indebted. I remember the coot I had to behead with a shovel last year... that fucking cat... that poor thing, with its broken legs and wings... half-paralyzed already. It is seared into my brain. My rotten humanity, and all its responsibilities. I remember the mercy killing. And all the while I am thinking whether I should chase them away, so they won't get too comfortable in this treacherous place. After all, it will be summer again.
Ah, but their new life brings me solace; their bonding, and all its premises. I cannot intervene with everything. I will give them their twenty more minutes.
Twenty minutes, I know this. I could set the clock to it. For after twenty minutes the magpie couple will arrive to crash and end the singing birds', and now, aquatic birds', party. Then, dusk and darkness will set in, and the garden will return to silence. You would think I wouldn't like the magpies for chasing all the birds away, seeing how much I miss them when they're gone, but I love this magpie couple. They keep the rooks away. And as such, all of which I am now seeing is possible.
