12.2.2010

I saw the greatest little bird this morning.

First of all, I made it up to the Dish, and I ran part of the way. Running frightens me now, but I think that it still thrills me more, and in any case the fear and the thrill mix up in my throat so that in the end I just feel as though I sipped something sweet and hot a little too quickly. And maybe that’s exactly where running and I stand these days. Much as with those sugar-syruped concoctions that arrive in Starbucks paper cups, whipped cream melting rapidly as steam rises at its edge, once I start running I always lose it and slurp like a five year-old as though at any moment some cruel grown-up might swipe the cup from my hand.

But I behaved at the Dish. The Dish makes moderation easier. Between the steep hills and the view, the sun rising over the foothills and lighting up the early December frost between blades of grass, it seems okay to slow down and walk occasionally. It seems important to look up and savor the air, all the air, between bouts of gulping whatever stray oxygen happens to have settled near my feet. 

I ran up the first big hill, and then I walked, and then I ran down some of the rollers backward, which feels gentler on my bones despite the odd jarring encounter with the odd elderly couple out for an early-morning stroll in front of me. I met the bird at the very top.

He was a handsome little guy, with a white belly and black wings and a bright-red head that put me in mind of an enormous cranberry. He preened a little as I approached, burying his small, sharp beak in his chest, and then resumed pecking devotedly at something in the grass. He looked great. Not that he spoke to me in some deep, love-of-the-wilderness kind of way. He just looked very full of purpose. He looked like he had a lot of character.

And best of all, he was fearless. I drew alongside him, waiting for him to startle and fly away, and I passed him, still waiting for him to startle and fly away, and when I looked back I saw him standing on the same patch of frosty grass, watching me out of one keen black eye. His gaze was relaxed – not defiant, not aggressive, but regal, curious, and unafraid. I might even belong in his little world. I might already have earned the right to set foot on his ground. But he certainly belonged there, and I was certainly the least of his reasons to move.

The trail rolled and began to drop. I turned around and ran backward again, landing on my toes at every step, spinning my heels into the sunrise. My shadow stretched in front of me, then bent sideways as the sun turned into my face. Blinded now in all directions, I spread my arms and toppled downhill, shadow spilling into my outstretched hands, wondering idly if the early-morning amblers would get out of my way.