The Different Junco

This morning I sat by the window, watching. There was a dark-eyed Junco in the circle of bare earth  that lies in the center of my garden. He had spots of white feathers on his ordinarily all-black head, on the gray throat, the brown back, all on his right side. He was hopping around eating the birdseed I scattered, just like the others. They hadn't finished the seed that I scattered yesterday in the shape of Jupiter’s glyph. Today, Friday, I made the symbol of Venus right on top. Pleasure on top of power. I wondered if the birds have gotten out of the habit of visiting, or if the business of spring has made them too concerned with other things to eat each day’s seeds.

But even with this wildly sunny weather, it is too early for the obsession with proteins the baby birds bring. And nest building requires fuel. I wonder if the spotted one has a mate, is accepted in spite of his difference? Jamie spent the night, is drinking coffee by the window with me. She calls him “a mutant,” which I feel is cruel. But then I think, there is so much that is needed right now, and isn’t mutation nature’s way of having a brilliant new idea?

Yesterday that guy Flint texted me "tell me about the ritual from last night." And I decided to reply, even though I am "all done." This is my practice of change, of telling the truth with my words instead of avoiding the question with diplomatic silence. Too much diplomatic silence from the wrong people is epidemic right now, I do believe. So I wrote back "Actually, you lost me at human sacrifice."

I think my old love Rob would not have made that joke. He would've gotten the hint at "Grimms got us all wrong." He would've asked a question. 

The witch hazel is leafing out. It seems early, risky. The ruby Magnolia got burned by a hard frost two nights ago. But the dark earth is playing straight man to all varieties of tender green beyond the glass: the wood sorrel are opening new three-leafed clovers; the Crocosmia are sticking pale green spears straight up, each the width of a finger, the height of a hand. I've been doing too much, as is my wont. Last night, instead of going out, I stayed home, listened, was still and let my growing rest.