Susan LaffertyNight sky. Stars lost in the city’s loud light.
Raised in a large urban center, I look back on my childhood. And remember something different.
Limited electricity. Unpredictable outages.
Frequent darkness in the evenings.
And stars.
On beach vacations in my childhood, I made little sand bowls. Piled up a mountain of sand, scooped out the top, then slowly poured a cup of water in.
It baked in the tropical heat. And I baked in the tropical heat. Then, brushing away the loose sand, I lifted out a fragile oddly-shaped sand bowl.
The momentary art of a child at play.
The surf moved in and out. I sat in the vast ocean holding my little creation. A large wave drenched me. The bowl dissolved. Wet sand ran through my fingers in the waves. Delightful.
Then I made another one.
The birds swoop down toward me. Splattered mud of last year’s temporary nest still stains the corner under the roof of our patio. We’ve tried to deter them. A long rope of brass bells from India hangs from a nail nearby. I watch them pull at the strands of the rope. Loudly protesting this intrusion.
They try a new location. In the opposite corner. Instinct rules and they will not be stopped. We pile something in this new spot. Our attempt at a scarecrow. We wait to see whether they’ll leave for another place.
They’re obnoxious. All the chattering and swooping makes the back patio an unpleasant experience. But I know it’s how they’re wired. It’s time for nest making. Go home.