The Way of the Moth: February 23, 2010, journal entry, Cedar Waxwings

One hour.

Despite the chilled temperatures in the 20’s, the blue blue of the blue sky and the sounds and sound songs of birds hint at Spring. It is as if Spring, in her own run, has doubled back to grab the hand of Her companion Winter, pulling her forward.

Although I have been hearing the calls and the calls of a red-winged blackbird for several mornings during my runs now, he finally made his appearance yesterday, perched atop the gentle fog of shedding cattails, proudly showing off his handsome red and yellow broad, strong shoulders.

I regularly pass and bow to the fruiting trees who feed the overwintering birds, checking to see how many brown, orange, and red berries, designed to be eaten, remain on the trays of branches like peas on a baby’s high chair after dinner. Yesterday though, suddenly I gasped, stopped alive in my tracks as I saw what I thought might be a cedar waxwing. Spellcast, I watched these birds flit about alongside Spring-bringing robins, their flight reminiscent of skipping children. I determined that I would return later in the day during a break with my binoculars and BlackBerry camera, and I do return, and, although the red-winged blackbird called from the underarm of thickset bushes, I could see no waxwings. Even the sparrows were quiet as if resting in a sun-warmed porch for afternoon nap on a wicker couch.

So today, I decide that I shall use the measuring cups of time, my small binoculars, and BlackBerry to determine the path and distance for this morning’s run. With my waist pack filled, pigtails sprouting above my black headband, and purple Adidas jacket, out I go into the bright blue cold. I pass the red-berried tree on the very east corner-side of the cattailed marsh of Hazel’s Creek where I saw what I THINK are waxwings and am disappointed to see the tree vacant of occupants. No matter. I cast off toward the pond of tall cattails. The cattails are at least a foot taller than my almost 5’10”, 120-pound frame, shedding their white wispy tufts of fairy cotton-like dust, hosting Master Red-Winged Blackbird who throws his calls across the path to another who is posturing and preening, shuffling his wings like cards, perched atop even more cattails. I hear at least four volleying opinions in the wild melee of conversation.

I also hear the distinct accent of quails that sounds like the bubbling water of creeks, coveys hidden at the slim ankles of cattail stands, then see them as they lift off in an explosive bloom like a stove throwing off heat, sounding like the soft nickering of horses, their tear-drop plumes hanging from their foreheads, commas in the break of their foraging. They land, disappearing again in the thatch of even more cattails moving in the wind in the way of gently lapping water.

On a whim, I circle around and return to the east tree, knowing I still have plenty of time. I am glad I do, because chitchatting and flitting about with robins are my cedar waxwings undeterred by the cold. And they ARE cedar waxwings with wings and tail feathers a bright primary red and yellow as if they have been dipped in inkwells of paint. Upon my arrival, they startle up to the tops of evergreens, so I quietly hover in the moment like my Lincoln Park hummingbird, ignoring the chill of the 24 degree temperature. Sooner than I think, they return to the tree, feeding on its brown and red berries, their twitter a rhapsody of undulating knolls and dips. Hopscotching from limb to twig and skipping from twig to berry as though selecting the finest produce in the ultimate of natural markets, dandled by branches, their yellow small fills me with such delight I want to cry. I capture pieces of my 15-minute moment with my beloved BlackBerry and binoculars.

Enamored, with small electrical currents of happiness surging to my muscles, I pause by the abandoned building, where I find shells of blue-tivity in Spring and witnessed a sparrow move beyond the veil, and notice the stocky starlings still dressed for winter in their white spots not yet glossed over, in their constant stream of chatter, rattle, whir, and whistle, hanging out with chirring grey and brown sparrows, a wheel of rotating musical notes from the building’s roof to the staff of electrical wires.

I have been out an hour, and I may have gone only four miles, but to weigh the ridiculous happy I feel right now, I will need to hit my favorite kitchen supply shop and buy sets and sets of measuring cups.

‘Cause I am SERIOUSLY ridiculously happy.