Early spring. A drowsy Sunday afternoon, and breezes whisper through windows above
my bed. A riot of birdsong ricochets between trees and mirror and wall. I lean back
against the feather pillows, notepad abandoned, assigned Muse forgotten as I listen
to music of another: She who speaks through mockingbird and finch. My eyes are
closed to savor the notes, so clear I can almost see them oscillate through my
eyelids—but I feel something watching, a radiance above and to the left.
I open my eyes. A blue goose?! Here?
But no, not as large—more like a Teal, I think, as my eyes focus. Trying not
to scare it away, I sit up carefully, mesmerized by the fantastic fowl suspended
a few feet from my face. The only bird I know with such mastery of hover would zoom
to my nose to inspect me; hummingbirds can be rude that way. But this whatever-it-is,
this bird I’ve never seen even in guidebooks, hangs back. In wariness maybe,
though the word “politely” might serve as well.
How can it float like that, on such flimsy-looking wings? Iridescent, fragile:
they remind me of wings I’ve seen on fruit flies, flashing prisms under the
microscope’s lens. And its feathers! They shimmer with tones so vibrant
I feel seasick. Magnify a hundred times the blues and greens of the peacock, and
wash with constellations of gold. I feel unbalanced, queasy. My left hand turns
palm upward and reaches toward her. Some hormonal intuition assures me this colorful
creature is female, though I know avian males are generally the more flamboyant.
She glides forward and dips her head, pecking between my fingers as if searching
for something. Long and elegant, her beak clips my flesh, making me wince and retreat,
yet I sense no malice in her. At first I think she’s attracted by stones in
my ring: three diamonds and four emeralds. What a silly thought. She’s
no common bowerbird, visiting to admire trinkets that adorn my nest. Or is she?
She seems impatient but only jerks that shimmering head in silence, her eyes opaque,
as enigmatic as those of the mortal muse who teaches me to dream while awake. What
can she want? Hesitating, I offer my other hand, the one that still holds the pen.
This she contemplates while seasons change, while tectonic plates grind and shudder
below, while birdsongs cycle once, twice, three times seven. Spindles of sunlight
trembling. Particles of down drifting. Featherdust clinging to my skin. My hand
itching faintly—yet I dare not move under those eyes, those inscrutable
eyes that watch me clearly now with reproach. I have ignored her, those eyes pronounce.
Her disenchantment burns my fingers. The pen melts.