Sometimes the view of the Sandias is filled with a bird flying right into the big glass windows of the house. Thump. They shake off the surprise of seemingly solid air and fly away. Lucky birds! Some are not so lucky. A few fall limp, spending the last moments of being a bird confused and in pain. It is a hard, yet a beautiful moment, looking into the eyes of a dying bird as they look into yours. A creature who has spent all it's days fluttering away from human beings, suddenly finding comfort cradled in ones hands. I wonder at what moment after the bird dies, does it realize it's spirit continues to fly? There is a place under the old Grandfather cotton wood tree where the little bodies are placed back into the earth. I have dug too many holes there.
I have always wondered if monkeys can swim. If they can swim, I wonder
if they race. If I were a monkey, I would learn the art
of swimming to be sure. Maybe start a monkey swimming Olympics where
monkeys from all over the world come together and compete in the spirit of goodwill. I imagine there would have to be a strict rule about no splashing. I would not wish to be the enforcer of such a rule.
Throughout time, a place of water has been the community center, a
place to refresh, reflect and play. The arroyo behind the barn is such a
place. The birds spend a lot of their time here. Doves, crows,
pheasants, ducks, blackbirds, hummingbirds, sparrows, roadrunners and
sometimes a hawk all come here to be. It is their sacred place. No monkey business.