- (Posted June 14, 2010) Yesterday, after all the hub-bub of a busy Saturday, it was time to mow the lawn. Now, to those of you who grew up on a farm, that statement likely seems trite. If you spent your youth taking care of dairy cows, milking them twice a day, every day, day in, day out; or feeding hogs; or cleaning a barn, spending four hours on a John Deere riding lawn mower on a cool, overcast Sunday morning sounds inconsequential. Add to the equation the fact I was listening to Brenda Weiler, Warren Zevon, Bob Dylan, Wilco, and assorted other musicians on my Sansa (bargain iPod), and it’s unlikely I’ll draw much sympathy from anyone who ever worked the business end of a Case or an International.
Still, it’s a big job, this keeping nature at bay. Jack helped out by push mowing the front lawn. Two years ago, I bought a rechargeable (battery powered) push mower; my acknowledgment that global warming is indeed real. Jack’s intervention saved me a good half-hour: A half hour I spent (after completing my circuit on the rider) cutting grass along the edges of gardens and trees with a gas powered trimmer and old fashioned hand clippers. Throughout the day, migrant raindrops splatted my bare arms and legs but the clouds never fully opened up.
While mowing around our vegetable garden, where corn and green beans have finally sprouted through the wet loam in neat rows, I came upon a scene that caused sadness and reflection. I stopped the rider, stood in the cool air, and lifted a delicate body in my right hand. The plumage of the small bird, rust chested and blue winged, one of the male bluebirds living with its mate in the wooden houses I’ve erected on graying cedar fence posts around our yard, appeared shockingly ordinary in death. Gone was the vibrant, flitting indigo one sees when a male bluebird flies.
Birds die by the thousands along the Cloquet River every summer. I don’t witness their deaths. Why does the death of one bluebird seem so significant?
I showed Rene’ the carcass before depositing it in the woods. The bird’s body was intact. I formed no hypothesis as to why the bird died.
Standing by the side of my lawn tractor, intent upon finishing my work, I watched a pair of bluebirds patrol the space around their nest.
Lord protect them, I prayed before firing up the lawn tractor.
Sunday evening, I sat on a porch swing on our covered front porch reading the Sunday paper. My work was done. My body was sore. Daisey, our black lab mix, an old dog, a tired dog, lay sprawled on wood decking near my feet. The dog’s contented snores added a bass line to the high pitched trilling of tree frogs in the waning light.
“What kind of bird is that?” Jack asked as he stepped from house onto porch, pointing at a small, red chested, white bellied bird sitting at the very tip of a spruce planted alongside my wife’s flower garden.
“I’m not sure,” I replied.
“Looks like a female bluebird.”
“I think you’re right. Get the book.”
Jack retrieved our bird book. He was right. The bird was a female bluebird, a fact verified when it landed close to the porch and flared its blue tail feathers.
Rene’ joined us on the porch.
“Maybe she’s looking for her lost mate,” Rene’ said plaintively.
I watched the little bird flit away, hoping that my wife was wrong.
Peace.
Mark
