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September 7, 2013
The Raptor's Cry
And in the summer, came the hummingbirds. Perched in tall evergreens, they attacked all that dared to cross the yard.
"Where are the feeders, human? Why are they not up? We've just returned from Mexico, quite thirsty. It was a long voyage."
"Yes. Yes, little birdies. Do not fret. I have just returned from there as well. Let me mix you up some secret sauce for the hummingbird feeder."
I filled the hummingbird feeders, the black oil sunflower feeders, and topped off the water in the bird bath. How romantic it is to have something that depends on you for survival, even if only a few feathered creatures.
Jennifer helped me as the birds appeared. So dried and cracked, the brain is. A funny thing to try to recall what you're certain you once knew. What's wrong with the brain that it knows it once knew a bird's name, but can no longer recall it? Who designed this brain, with it's odd shortcomings. It's peculiar inadequacies.
"Black-capped Chickadee?" I ask.
"No daddy. It's a Mountain Chickadee. See the black line through its eye?"
"Yes. Yes. Angel. Now I remember. So it is.
And now come the raptors. The immature red-tailed hawk that I've watched grow up in the valley this summer. The odd gull-like cry I've learned to recognize in an instant. And with him, as an escort, a pair of Turkey Vultures. And another hawk, almost completely white beneath.
Why do they travel like this in groups? It seems that they all want to keep a close watch on their competition. I'm secretly ashamed at how similar they are to us.
Yesterday
I'm driving down the mountain's twisting veins. Gut wrenching hairpin turns down a 5% grade. Going to pick up Jennifer from school, and suddenly the engine cuts out, as though I've run out of gas. But I haven't. I have plenty of gas. Never mind that.
Now, things get interesting. The brakes quit working. The power steering goes out. And I'm rolling downhill through a twisting canyon with no brakes and no steering. In theory, the power steering still works if you turn it hard enough. In theory, you can use the emergency brake if you have to. But that's all theory.
Instead, I turn the key, which turns the engine over, and generates enough power to steer and brake in the turns. Other than that, I just coast. Finally, I make it through all the turns. Now, it's a straight away, but I'm still gaining speed, racing down the mountain. I'll be OK now. I'm going to live. I'll just let it coast until it stops.
It feels like it's still running, as I coast uphill. Finally stops at the top of the grade. I coast over onto the shoulder.
Now, I have other problems. The truck is, essentially, a rolling arsenal. I couldn't tell you how many guns are in it, but at least 10, I would say. And I don't have a valid driver's license.
Posted by Rob Kiser on September 7, 2013 at 3:12 PM
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