It is a whirlwind in here



A Blue Jay Goes To Sleep Outside My Window


In the dusk, a blue jay has gone hop … hop … hop, from one branch of the fir tree to another, right up to my window. And he has perched there, looking in for the past four minutes. I whisper “hello”

The blue jay has been there twenty-five minutes. I thought it might have gone to sleep, but it just shifted, and then pecked at some tree needles. I doubt I have ever seen a sleeping bird.

Two crows just flew over, making their crow sounds. Woke up the blue jay, who paid attention. But then, as far as I can tell, the blue jay went back to sleep.

A window is a quarter open, a fan is on, and I’m watching NCIS (with the sound lower than usual). Yet the blue jay seems to sleep on. I might not be able to see it when it becomes totally dark.

Well, it is now too dark to see the blue jay asleep on the branch – just the barest silhouette. I’m guessing the blue jay will be gone before I awake. But I’ll look.

These were my twitter feeds until half past midnight, when I went to bed. I turned off the lights, and would not turn them on again in case the change would wake up the blue jay. The following were scrawled in the dark, except for the street light coming in the window. The time checks are from the alarm clock.

12:30 There is now some rain, though not heavy. The blue jay sleeps on.

 4:45  The blue jay is still asleep. The wind is strong enough to make the branch sway.

5:15  There are some distant bird calls, which are answered within five minutes. The blue jay sleeps.

5:25 There is some pre-sunrise light from the east. It is green. There are now a number of birds chirping in the distance. No movement from the blue jay.

5:50 There is enough light from the windows to read my hand-writing. The blue jay is gone. It slept the night one meter (three feet) from my window.

If The Wind Howls At Midnight, Should It Howl At Noon?


Because, that is how the wind doth blow. From the ocean (where it gets a good start) across the shore and up the hills. And it doesn’t seem to want to stop. Whistle, whistle, whistle.

I think it makes more noise through the bare trees than those, at other times of year, with leaves. The branches shiver and the house shakes and the roof does not sound as secure as one would like.

Apparently it is not a precursor of storm, for the sky is blue save for some well-tossed fluffy clouds. And they do like to tumble in the wind. But, of course, they have no place to fall.

So, the winter sand from the street whirls, and dust balls tumble along, and it is best to turn your head away from the grit.

It’s better than being tossed across the waves of the sea however, think I.

And a sign of how much the wind howls?

A chair under the doorknob.


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