An Ordinary Day

An ordinary day but a holiday

 A day on which it was sixty F and the sun shining

  A day for taking pictures in a garden.

    In November.

Not a day like today: drizzly, gray and cold.

 A day when a wolf-dog with icy blue eyes stared at me at the cross-walk for no reason.

It was ten. On the way to the Rhododendron garden.

Via Public Transit.

Via Downtown.

A woman feeding pigeons in downtown Portland.

The quotidian line of customers queuing outside the glass cave of the Apple store.

The shop-assistant unlocking the door the door at the Rolex showroom and smiling

Smelling burritos being cooked on the sidewalk waiting for the bus.

The smell of oil and beans and tortillas like the food truck for "workers" at work.

A US American wearing "Power" brand shoes from India.

Fluorescent dots working on the Tillicum Bridge.
And into the Rhododendron garden with fiery fluorescent leaves.
Take a few steps in. Relax.

Relax?
A red-sapsucker.
A RED-sapsucker.
I realize that I have a heart.
That it is pounding furiously.
Hunch my shoulder blades closer together.
Lower the backpack to the ground. Un-velcro it.
Reach for the camera.
Motion Sonya to do the same.
Birds have a way of disappearing fast. One has to be ready.
   - I admonish myself.
This red sap-sucker is in no hurry.
Hops from branch to branch. Even looks down at me for my precipitance.
Drill. Tap. Clamber.
Hop. Climb. Higher.

Spilled Millet?
Around a bend. Sun behind my back. Set up my tripod and relax.
The Spotted Towhee flees into the bushes. Crosses the path but too shy to be seen in public.
The Song Sparrow- the ubiquitous native lonely chipper- gobbles a few mouthfuls.
Makes way for the hierarchy of the squirrels.

You -the fattest baddest squirrel are not satisfied with a mouthful.
Not satiated with a minuteful.
Not satisfied with driving the others away.

You approach me after feasting with an imposing in your eye.
Stands up to make eye contact.
You have trained humans well- O Mighty Cute One!
- but I have empty pockets and instructions from Audubon to not feed you.
Your co-squirrel looks at me from his perch on the rocky ledge by the side of the path.
Looks at you to end your gluttony.
Looks at me pleadingly to shoo you away.
But you keep calm and carry on.

Clack! Clack! Clack!
Your scolding cry resonates through the garden.
Your corvid pack descends on the scene.
Half a dozen black and blue shapes against a background of leafless branches
You the boldest of them, hop to feast on the millet.
You knew when the squirrels would be done.
You, my dear Steller's Jay, pose for the most handsome full length portrait six feet away.

And in the pool to my right is a cackle of canada geese, 

 and wood ducks, and widgeons, and mallards aplenty.

Shy juncos and chee chee chickadees.

A silent crow looking on from above.

A few northern flickers alighting on branches overhead and moving on.

And an elusive green heron eclipsed by tall grass scanned by eagle-eyed Sonya- 

-perhaps you are the one from Lago Atitlan from Guatemala?

To the bigger expanse of water on my left, bounded by traffic, and train horns and a golf course

are other ducks.

Ducks whose names and identifying marks I have forgotten over the past year. 

No heron silhouette across the lake or a bald eagle on a tree.

But, I see a male bufflehead- the easiest duck to identify on a cloudy day in these northern latitudes.

And gliding nearby are nearly a dozen female buffleheads.

Clearly not fitting the profile for human newly-weds.

You are content contemplating the scene silently from afar- just within the reach of my telephoto lens.

A diving duck feeding on "Crustaceans, mollusks and insect larvae"- says the guidebook.

You do not care for the scraps of white-bread tossed by the visitors on the other side of the fence. 

And you, The red-breasted sapsucker return.

To drill a new hole into a deciduous tree.

And keep drilling insistently.

Even when two kids show up and pass by you to see the mallard multitude.

Even when a few paparazzi take photos from afar.

Even when I mistakenly identify you as a hairy woodpecker.

A fancy camera does not a birder make.
The flashcards fill up. 

The lenses retire into their warm pouches.

You keeping drilling in plain sight.

Like an oil company with an inalienable fracking right.

I leave you to your task.

And walk on.

I spot a varied thrush in the bushes.

Which climbs up and lands on a branch to validate that it was not to be mistaken for a robin.

It dives back in.

An angry mob of crows shouts displeasure at the presence of talons.

I see the talons land overhead- a white underside and a headless body blocked by a branch.

The talons make an exit- chased by the mob.

In another pond, I missed a devoted wood-duck couple
Preening each other.
Amidst the ill-mannered mallards.
Sonya shows me the photos later.

And there are Canada Geese looking imploringly at me.
I hope you don't bite me.
Your rubber-hose necks with crystal beads of water sway your head like a serpent.

You are wild I thought.
Or, perhaps, we have co-domesticated each other?

Are you permitted to be so close to me?

What about my personal space?

And on to Reed Canyon. 

Across the road.

Flecked with yellow and ferns.

And twisted limbs of aged trees.

Amazing to know that it continues all the way through.

Not a waterway for cars like Sullivan's Gulch.

A pair of mergansers slink away from us.

From the bank, smoothly without any wake.

We visit curious chickadees, a flock of Steller's jays and acorn woodpeckers.

And a separate song-sparrow tweets the party line each and every fifty feet.