Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Shreep Shreep Shreep the lullaby of my childhood, the plaintive call of the ubiquitous scrub jay has roused me from sleep from day one, snapped me out of a musing, brought me back from a day dream, grounded me in the now. Its blue blue feathers, otherworldly, found in the garden, on the ground, after a coopers hawk's dinner, sadness for the jay, this ever-present bird, a sound I took for granted, every day, like breath, does not fly where I am going. There are other jays, but not this one, so the sounds of my days will change, and the shreep shreep shreep will be silenced for me. Of all the things I will miss, the Pacific Ocean, the dry sunshine, the redwood trees, this I will miss the most. I will listen for the Blue Jay, and if I am lucky the Florida Scrub Jay, but alas they will be second fiddle to my childhood soundtrack. Listen up my Californians, the Western Scrub Jay is calling.