I am sitting in the back yard, in a slightly uncomfortable chair, in the shade
of a maple tree. The chair might be a bit awkward, but my legs are long and
most chairs are ill-fitting. Besides, the book I am reading is entertaining and
compelling, and the hum of the bees and the songs of the birds all around is
pleasant. It is warm, but not overwhelmingly so; it is a very pleasant and
pleasing August afternoon.
The neighbor’s cat (a black tom named Scamper) approaches me. He prowls the
neighborhood, roaming through the yards, jumping fences, doing whatever it is
that freewill, free-range felines do during the day. He stops by to insist
himself against my leg, purring. He flicks his tail to invite me to stroke his back
and to rub his head – until he is done. Then he strikes with teeth and claws
and an intimidating hiss, but only enough to say, “I’m outa’ here.” He does not
draw blood. He leaves the way he came, but he’ll be back again later. When he
wants to. Or not.
A little white moth (of what variety I do not know) stumbles around the yard –
drunkenly, up, down, forward, side, never in a straight line from anywhere to
anywhere. Dip, lift, light, flight, away it goes.
Birds are eating the sunflowers that I planted in my backyard garden. A bright
flash of sunlight and shadow dives into the flowers– a goldfinch light enough
to lite on the leafy branches pecks with a tiny pointed beak into the dark
circle centers of my flowers. Busted seed shells are scattered down below in
the dirt. He doesn’t notice me watching him, watching him lean and twist to
reach the seeds, then flit and flutter and shake to crack them open. He doesn’t
notice me watching the empty seed husks fall. But I see him.
Perhaps if I were a professional farmer, a sunflower farmer, dependent upon a
good crop of seeds to sell, I’d be distressed by this thievery. But I’m not so
I’m not. I grow these flowers for the challenge and the delight of seeing them
grow. And for the delight of watching bees and birds flying in and among them.
The backdoor opens to let the dog out for a bit. She’s an eleven year old Great
Dane, once bounding with energy and a sleek black coat, now slow and grey and
white in the face. But she still loves to be outside. The seed stealing
goldfinch is startled and takes flight, swooping up into the branches of the
maple tree above me.
I see great bomber bees, fuzzy yellow zeppelins, bumbling back and forth among
the dinner plate blossoms – bomber bees that live not in a hive, but in a hole
in the ground (I’ve followed them. It’s a hole in the ground near the
air-conditioner unit). I see Yellow Jacket wasps, and Hoverflies – which look
like bees but are not, as well as that flashy yellow goldfinch – returned with
his slightly duller hued female companion (no less glorious in her muted
colors) now that the dog has lay down in a shady corner of the yard, far from
the sunflower buffet.
I’ve also seen, to my surprise (and delight) humming
birds eating at my sunflowers, ruby throated, green lighting darts darting in
to feed on fresh brewed sun tea, sweet tea, sweet sunflower nectar, which must
be the ambrosia of Helios himself. There are orange and black butterflies too, floating among the
blood-red-soon-to-turn-deep-yellow heads. They are the majestic monarchs of a
disappearing kingdom.
I
complained last summer of the squirrels who snicked the heads off my
sunflowers in order to snack on the seeds, but I wasn’t really upset. This too
the way of the world; the squirrels, too, are a delight.
I don’t know if my sunflowers will help preserve the bees and the butterflies.
Perhaps their declines are already too far gone. This is the way the world ends
- not with a bang, not in fire, not in ice as some folks will say, but in
futility -in the buzzless despair of unpollinated futility. The world will be a
sorrowful place when the bees and butterflies are gone forever. So I delight in
them if and while I can.
