RETURN OF THE BLUEBIRD

RETURN OF THE BLUEBIRD

An icy wind blows down from the north, more reminiscent of February then April. The
leafless trees in the old orchard sway and rustle, and last years grass in our beloved field moves
in waves to the stroking of the wind. Traces of snow ridges still linger in shaded spots.

"Christ it's cold." Fred says as we seek the protection of the draw from the frigid gusts.

I, always the optimist, reply, "To live your life in such a place seems worthy of a God. If I
could choose, of all the universe, I would choose here."

A rabbit nibbles delicacies at the edge of a raspberry tangle, unaware that we watch him.
A circling red tailed hawk also watches.

Sentinel posts of a long abandoned fence, now wireless, march across the meadow. The
creek flows full. Frozen watery film like spun glass lines the banks. Sprigs of green pierce the
brown grass of the field. Already, in the forest, spring beauties and anemones unfold their white
blossoms seeking a warming sun.

A touch of blue appears in the overcast and a ray of light and warmth encompass us.

"I can feel it in the air. Spring. Soon the bluebird will return." I say.

"It's damned cold." says Fred.

*****

What a difference a few weeks make. The changes of Spring have worked a miracle.
The field is mostly green now. The breeze is warm with a pledge of great things to come.

In the meadow a deer browses on tender shoots, and trees have hatched their buds, and
brought forth tiny bits of green that promise to become leaves. Mayapple and trout lily fill the
forest floor. Delicate bloodroot and Dutchman's britches hide amongst the oaks and hickories.

We can't resist. We revel among the flowers, marveling. We find sustenance for the
soul.

"Jesus Christ!" screams Fred as he blunders into a spider web. "Is it on me? Is it on
me?"

"No, Fred. It's still at the edge of the web. Let's stay here and watch it spin the repairs to
the damage you caused."

"You stay and watch that ugly bastard. They make me feel creepy. I'm going to the
marsh and look for lady slippers."

"Feeling creepy can cause you to miss out on one of the miracles of nature. Stay and
watch."

Fred ignores my invitation and says, "I saw it today. It's back."

"The bluebird? When? Where?"

"Over by the old fence post where the chickadees hollowed out a home last year. It's
going to nest there."

"The hallowed symbol of Spring. It's back in our meadow. And now our domain exceeds
perfection. We are continually blessed."

"Ohhh Riiight," says Fred.

It is a bolt of blue and orange that smashes our tranquility. An audible snap of wings jerk
it to a stop and a quick change of direction. I flutter dazed trying to regain my thoughts.

Then I see it. The bluebird sitting on a fence post with a butterfly in it's mouth. It is Fred.

His bright sulfur yellow wings are unbelievably lovely against the azure blue of the bird. Such
beauty stirs within me a feeling of reverence and awe.

With its bill the bird tenderizes Fred abdomen to a juicy pulp. A golden wing rips off and
flutters to the ground where a passing ant pulls and manipulates it toward an unseen anthill.

Just before going down the gullet, Fred looks over at me and screams, "And I'm
supposed to be enjoying this?"

End

Story ID:	633
Written by:	Dick Dunlap (bio, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Fiction
Location:	Rural Freeport Illinois USA
Year:	2006
Person:	Fred