Reflections from the Swamp
Dear Reader
This story was inspired by watching Mourning Doves and a Redwing Blackbird flock together at the birdfeeder. I hope you like it.
The bone-chilling northeast winds ruffle the tan-grey feathers of the doves with their hollow, mournful coah, cooo, cooos. Seven await the dawn for the return of dispersed light and hope beneath the birdfeeder. An older man, Adam, appears in a heavy hooded black coat, insulated laced boots, and a blood-red scarf to spread lifegiving sunflower seeds below the snow-laden spruce trees. Ice cakes his beard, fed by the warm vapers escaping his lungs. His heart beats slowly compared to the tiny chickadees moving quickly between the branches. Just as fire needs oxygen to burn, his internal fire needs solitude. The birds enhance his inner peace and his quiet reflections.
The doves disperse while Adam digs his arthritic hands into the light canvas bag, sowing his black seeds evenly like he hoped they would grow in the white snow. The snow meticulously records the hundreds of tiny footprints of the mice and birds below the spruce. As Adam leaves, the doves return, never pushing and shoving, to glean the black seeds adrift in the shallow snow, now sharing the harvest with several house sparrows and a solitary lame red-winged blackbird.
The red-winged blackbird, with his faded red crescent markings, could not fly to warmer climes when the irresistible calls of his peers filled the marsh with their cries in the fall. Like a companionless immigrant, he joins the peaceful doves, follows them to their secret feeding stations, and learns to live outside the familiar marsh. He mimics the soft co-coos of the doves and lets his aggressive territorial instincts fly away with his fellow blackbirds.
Adam gathers some wood off the deck before entering his house. He lifts a circular iron cover off the cookstove and gazes at the hot red embers in their bed. Adam places a white birch piece of wood in the fire and pours himself a cup of black tea from the tin pot simmering on the stove. He remembers the beauty of the birch before it slowly died two years ago. The birch grew broad and outspread in the open field. The cremation of the birch in the cook stove brings back memories of the birch and brings warmth to the house.
Adam pulls off his coat, revealing a camouflage hoody, and places his boots and mitts in the cookstove oven, adjusts a chair, and looks out the window at the doves and a blackbird feeding under the trees. He smiles as he thinks about the black dove symbolizing peace.
Seeking a deeper meaning to the presence of the doves, especially the black one, Adam reflects on the wars and turmoil in the world. He often feels helpless in being able to do anything about these overwhelming problems.
Adam learned that chickadees’ brains grow in the winter, allowing them to remember where they have hidden seeds in the trees. He wishes he had the brain of a chickadee until he reflects on how small the brain must be—prompting another solitary smile. The chickadees lose brain cells in the summer when food is plentiful. Adam’s grey matter often betrays him, summer or winter, failing to remember names, keys, or why he is ascending the stairs.
The words of a song by Leonard Cohen form in the faulty grey matter, finally bubbling to the surface.
The birds they sang
At the break of day
Start again
I heard them say
Don’t dwell on what has passed away
Or what is yet to be
Ah, the wars they will be fought again.
The holy dove will be caught again
Bought and sold, and bought again
The dove is never free.
Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That’s how the light gets in
Adam always carries a small notepad to remind him of tasks that need doing, grocery lists, and inspirational thoughts or ideas that pop into his mind. He pulls out the notebook.
Adam writes a new verse for Cohen’s song. It doesn’t flow like Leonard’s. The verse has cracks in it. Writing a perfect song is a near-impossible task. He sees Cohen’s song as an eternal song carried by doves, mourning yet hopeful.
Open the door and free the dove
Open the heart and feel the love
See the dove in a red-winged blackbird
See the Christ in the eyes of a stranger
That’s how the light gets in
That’s how the light gets in
