Little Birds

Rise up this morning / Smiled with the rising sun
Three little birds / Pitch by my doorstep
Singing sweet songs / Of melodies pure and true
Saying, "This is my message to you."
Singing: "Don't worry 'bout a thing,
'Cause every little thing gonna be all right." (Bob Marley)

Sunday's are early because Ken gets up for work and even though I try to sleep in, once being-awake has me, all I can do is be awake. So I got up, wandered into the dining room, Duncan at my heels, and sat at the table looking out the window while I waited for the water to come to a boil. 7:30 and already the sun was big and bright so I propped open the patio doors. The air felt good on my face, not cold, not biting, but refreshing, clean. There were no cars on the street so it was nice and quiet, like Sunday mornings should be. The way they are when they're at their best. Duncan stayed close and I reached down to scratch behind his ears in the way he likes. He wasn't quite awake yet, his head low, his paws spread out, his red hair a blanket over my toes. I was thinking it was a good morning for Dave Brubeck. Some mornings are Miles Davis mornings, especially when the sky is dim and low with wet, the air pregnant with mist. But some mornings are Dave Brubeck mornings, the sun perfect for "Blue Rondo A La Turk," or the sky big enough for "Take Five." All those crazy rhythms and sudden bursts of notes are like a celebration of the sunrise, syncopated tributes to morning coming on. Dave Brubeck was invented for mornings the way Chet Baker was made for nights, especially lonely nights, or windy wet nights, or the time just after a soft rain, when the sun is caught low, between the clouds and horizon when the streets reflect the green and red of the traffic signals. I was about to put on "Take Five" when the sweet sound of little birds caught my attention, little birds on the tree just outside my window. Two of them, only a little bigger than my thumb, and the color of cardboard, darting as little birds do, especially on glorious and newly-warm mornings. I haven't heard their voices in so long that I felt like ice must feel when it cracks down the middle. Something in me, some spot I'd forgotten or neglected, opened up and nothing seemed more perfect than the sound of those birds. Even Dave Brubeck would have to agree.

As the morning opened around their song I pulled on my boots, snug and warm, and slipped the leash on Duncan before he'd even realized we were going for a walk, which is the best way to do it. Like a surprise party or something juicy and warm inside a bite of cake, quick and shocking, but the best thing you never thought of. We were out the door and across the street where more little birds moved among the bare branches of the crab apple trees. Duncan cocked his head at them and together we stood and listened, like we'd paid to do it, like it was a concert just for us. And it was just for us, the two of us, out in the cool, bright morning, the taste of Egyptian Licorice tea still on my lips, squirrel and bunny dreams still dancing through Dunc's head. It was a dancing walk, where everything seems easy, like in cartoons, and I wanted so badly for those little birds to perch on my shoulder or alight on my fingers where they could sing right to me.

A day is determined by the quality of its morning. Our morning was glorious. It's an Anything-Can-Happen Day. The best kind of day there is.

Night Walk

Autumn is coming and it's coming fast.

It's been a wonderful week in Denver. The leaves have not fully changed and are still hanging onto the branches, while those that have fallen make wonderful music as they crunch under our feet.

Today was sunny and bright and the air seemed to glow with Autumn. But it was windy and only got more so as the day progressed. By the time we went for our night walk at Clement Park, the clouds had appeared over the Front Range and were moving rapidly eastward. But it was still gorgeous. The sky was vast and brilliant and the stars were out. The wind smelled clean and cool and Duncan and I both stopped several times to tilt our faces into it, close our eyes and imagine we were flying.

I did something I said I wouldn't do. I wore my ear buds and listened to my iPod. I've added more music to my Autumn playlist. If you get a chance to hear them and take a walk among the leaves, I hope you can. They're wonderful.

"Autumn Leaves" (Miles Davis)
"Imagination" (Chet Baker)
"Flamenco Sketches"(Miles Davis)
"Love's Melody" (Django Reinhardt)
"Harvest Moon" (Cassandra Wilson)
"Coffaro's Theme" (Bill Frisell, Ron Miles, Curtis Fowlkes, Eyvind Kang)
"In a Sentimental Mood" (Duke Ellington & John Coltrane)
"Autumn in New York" (Billie Holiday)
"Sliding Down" (Edgar Meyer, Bela Fleck, Mike Marshall)
"Slumber, My Darling" (Edgar Meyer, Yo-Yo Ma, Mark O'Connor)
"Anthem" (Gabriel Yared)
"You Will Be My Ain True Love" (Alison Krauss)
"After the Rain" (John Coltrane)

iPod Autumn

Ear buds are our new best friend. Everywhere I turn I see them, especially at the park. No one seems to go anywhere without them, iPods strapped to arms or tucked into waistbands and one woman I saw jogging actually fastened her mp3 player to her Yellow Lab.

I don't take my iPod with me on walks. Not when I can listen to the loons and mourning doves and the crickets. I can't make any promises about what I'll do this winter, but for now I'm content to listen to the familiar plodding steps of my boy ahead of me.

But what are these people listening to? I imagine most of the runners have got some upbeat music playing that matches or drives their pace, which makes sense because our music tends to match our moods. I'm in an Autumn frame of mind currently and so I made myself an Autumn playlist. It hasn't made it on our walks, but it gets a lot of play at work.

If you're interested, here's a list of songs and artists that are either about Autumn or have an Autumn feel. I'd also be interested to hear your suggestions. Feel free to click the comment button and let me know what songs or pieces sound like Autumn to you.

"Boys of Summer" (Don Henley)
"Vineyard" (Jackopierce)
"Wake Me Up When September Ends" (Green Day--yes it's a cliche and way overplayed, but I can't help like it)
"California Dreamin'" (The Mamas and the Papas)
"Autumn Tactics" (Chicane)
"Wild is the Wind" (Nina Simone)
"Autumn Leaves" (Paula Cole– This one has been covered a million times, and the Chet Baker version is amazing as well, but Paula Cole's is I chose for this playlist)
"No Regrets" (Tom Rush)
"The Late September Dogs" (Melissa Etheridge)
"Blood and Fire" (Indigo Girls)
"Quiet" (Paul Simon– This one reminds me of the October afternoon of my grandfather's funeral, when I went to park named after him and listened to this over and over)
"Living in Twilight" (The Weepies)
"When October Goes" (Barry Manilow)
"I'll Be Seeing You" (Carmen McRae–again, it's been covered by everyone, but I think Carmen's version is one of the most poignant I've ever heard!)

Weather

The rain started last night. A lonely, Chet Baker trumpet kind of drizzle. The windows ran with the dripping color of the street and traffic lights and everything had a hazy ring around it, a halo or glow, an aura. And it was cold, a nut tightening, skin squeezing cold, the first of the season. It was the kind of weather that drops the leaves fast, and then drowns them until they wash away into dirt. It was a cold crawl-into-bed-early and pull-the-covers-up kind of night. But Duncan insisted on going out several times, just to get his nose wet and to veer back and forth, left and right, finding a way to hit each of the puddles. It didn't let up. All night it drizzled and as I fell asleep, my back to the window, I could hear the soft patter of the drops on the sidewalk right outside. Duncan and the cats curled up all over the bed: Winnie on my hip, where she usually sleeps, Pip at my chest, Olive up high on the pillows, her feet tucked under my head, Duncan spread in a line perpendicular to myself, forcing me into a tight ball, cramped but unwilling to disturb any of them, unwilling to let them think me ungrateful for their small, warm bodies.

It kept it up most of the day. I drove to work through cold and wet and mist and stepped into a puddle climbing out of my car. When I slipped outside for a smoke at ten, I huddled near the side of the building, thinking the long sleeved shirt I'd put on wasn't enough, but then, by two, the clouds had dissipated completely. The sun was out and it was actually hot. The sky had turned that beautiful shade of Autumn blue, a far away blue, like blue reflected off a blade, blue like something fragile. By the time I got home I was ready to change into shorts and a sweat shirt for my first evening walk with Duncan.

He pulled me down Bowles, past the Carls, Jr and the Red Robin, where we cut across the parking lot, through a low stand of bushes and onto the trail around the lake. Almost immediately he caught the scent of a rabbit and nearly cut himself trying to pull his way through the brambles. I pulled on his leash, said, "Duncan, come," sternly, and once we were moving down the trail, praised him for finding the rabbit and following orders. He hardly noticed. He spent the rest of the hour sniffing out every copse of willows and every tree for more rabbits and squirrels.

As I followed him up the hill away from the lake we came to the edge of the prairie dog town (which he had almost no interest in) and a wide expanse of tall grass, now yellow and only just beginning to fall. The sun, behind us, was bright and gold, allowing even the ants to cast long, dark shadows. And the grass was brilliant before us and I was thankful Duncan led me there, through the dark and wet of last night to the radiance of this afternoon. He could've cared less, but I was happy to share that moment with him.






Dogs may not be poets, but they can lead us to poetry if only we're willing to see the world through their eyes.