Two mourning
doves perched on a fence. He fluttering his feathers, flitting his tail, doing
the dance on the balance beam. She watching, stepping away in her dainty steps,
turning around to look the other way. For three hours the birds performed, a
live theatre under the clear blue sky and our very own sun as the spot light. They
flew off with the breeze, perhaps to carry on their courting for a new
audience, on a different fence, or branch of a tree, or on a poolside patio.
A cicada
killer wasp, nestled between the window and the screen. Slid half-way up, the glass
holds the creature back from invading the indoors. Secured on all sides, the
screen keeps it from its freedom. Its waspy body crawls up and then down, right
and then left unable to escape. It’s long, translucent wings, instruments to
call its mate flutter in desperation, their music without any sound. Encased
within two barriers through which it can see the high ceilings of the indoors
or the open sky outside, the creature quivers, paces, finds an opening and
takes flight. Liberated it soars and returns to its seasonal music that sounds
like the rattles of the desert snake.
An innocent squirrel
scurries across the fence, leaps onto a tree branch, traverses down the trunk
towards the birdfeeder. Gorging down the seeds on the ground in a hurry, spent,
it falls flat on its stomach. It’s mouth bulging, stomach packed, energy
depleted, desire unsated. Moments later it scuttles back to its home in the
tree only to be tormented by the mocking bird that calls it home as well. A Roadrunner act comes into play as the
squirrel dashes across the yard with the bird hovering overhead, it scurries
across the fence under the squabble of beak, and it hides in the branches only
to be assaulted within their canopy. The scene plays on for hours, fusing from
Act 1 into 2 and 3. The two dash through yards, front and back, between houses,
across boundaries unrecognized in their world. Then suddenly, a truce is called
and each go their own way, until next time.
A blackbird
loiters by the pool’s edge, its chlorine blue water shimmering in the bright
day. It spots a June bug floating in the center whose slim legs wave in the air.
The bug drifts on its back, helpless on the cool water’s surface. The bird
tilts to the left, then to the right grasping the edge with its dainty feet and
in a flash its wings open up and it glides to the center of the pool, diving
just a smidgen. Failed to grab the helpless bug, it flies to the other end,
re-evaluates and dives again. The June bug is rescued from drowning and becomes
nourishment for a little blackbird.
A rabbit
treads out from under the rosemary bush, strides toward a shady patio and
watches a human sitting on a chair, book in hand. It plods forward stopping to
admire the scenery at every turn, its mouth moving constantly, nose sniffing incessantly.
Picking up a familiar scent creeping up from its rear, it scampers forward,
decides a left turn, changes its mind and turns around in a circle with the
beagle close on its tail in hot pursuit. It sprints to the far end of the yard,
from the side of the pool, does an eight around the two trees and runs back
into the rosemary bushes. The beagle maneuvers the course as an Olympic champion,
curves around the bends expertly and keeps pace with the tiny creature. His
bulk around the belly, long hours of rest and comfortably secure life
contributing to his handicap in this chase his breed was born to perform. The
beagle buries his nose, face, half his body, in the fragrant bushes, lying in
wait for a tiny movement or minute mistake by the little creature. Several
minutes tick away as all that is seen is the Beagle’s tail upright like a flag,
waving, wagging, wiggling, until he gives up and returns to his interrupted nap
under the cool breeze of the ceiling fan.
But whose turf is it really?
Who is the one really intruding?
Who is truly wild?
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