the evening

Not necessarily that subductive, deeply mysterious, time of the day just after dusk, but the blurring of the harsh, high definition textures of the bright light of day into the vague smoothness of the early night. Every tiny moment, every infinitesimal point of darkness is fraught with drama. Obscured by the secrecy of the shadows, of the unknown mysteries. The stifled groans and cries of the barely imagined struggles, with and against. The furtive passions. The lurking predation of cruelty, injury, and hurt. The entangling bondage of shame and the strident declaration of naked freedom. All enclosed by the quiet paucity of visible information, allowing, drawing, the imagination into the play of emotions over it's softly rippling surface. Even, and more, and less, than even. ...the evening.

Family Values

A robin family has inexplicably selected a crook in the drainpipe on the side of our garage, as their chosen land. The parents built a mud and grass nest. Eggs were layed. Babies hatched. A Parental Robin will often take a stand on the walk near the drainpipe, with a worm dangling from it's beak. If undisturbed, it will flutter up and feed the little ones. If anything feels amiss, however, the bird will fly away and wait out the untidiness in a nearby tree.

Sheryl, being the most observant, and the self-appointed hausfrau, was the first to notice the nest, and the mother robin sitting expectantly on the eggs. It wasn't long, a week or two, before they hatched. The babies have always been rather scruffy and unattractive. Their parents, however, are relentlessly dedicated to them. Sheryl has seen the parental robins chasing away hawks, which like to lurk threateningly.

We feel privileged to have the opportunity to share our good fortune with this little family. To watch the babies grow, and to watch the parents love them, and protect them.

Life is good, all the time.

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addendum 20090826:

Early Wednesday afternoon the hawks attacked. Sheryl was home. They killed 3 of the babies, and carried off 2. The lone survivor was traumatized. He wouldn't eat. He didn't trust his own parents. Jumping from the nest, but too young to fly, he refused the raw chicken that Sheryl attempted to feed him. He refused the juicy worms his parents offered him. Sheryl carefully put him back into nest each time he jumped out, while his parents flew around making a fuss.

Eventually he stayed put. Probably exhausted.

Sheryl and I left to row. When we returned he was gone.

The nest is empty now. I looked inside, and was amazed at the smooth roundness of the interior.

I still believe that life is good, all the time.

Almost a Full Moon

Dear Norway,

This evening I was fortunate enough to have dined on a fine slab of barbecued salmon from one of your salmon farms. It was absolutely delicious. A huge improvement over those little red tins of sardines with the gold and black lettering on them. Congratulations to all of you, on a job well done. Keep up the good work.

It has not escaped my attention, however, that your people are called Norwegians, even though the name of your fine country is Norway. This inconsistency has probably had some subtle, and some not so subtle consequences in your dealings with the rest of the world. Since the population of your country is large, and they might not all like have their identities changed to "Norwayians", I would recommend that you change the name of your country to "Norwegia". That way all your people could still continue to be Norwegians, and things would just be more sensible. You just might notice some improvement in your interactions with the rest of the world as world as well.

Once you have changed your name, I might actually grace your fine country with a visit. In any case I'll look forward to hearing about it.

Your humble Friend and Saviour,