A Girl Named Sandoz

I dislike birds in the morning. They above all else signal the beginning of the day. There are many ways in which one can delay the onset of a day: blocked windows, repeats of The Last Samurai, potato sacks full of assorted alcohol and drugs, the crying tree of mercury, going under ground, deep under, but the birds...They will always give you a new day whether you want it or not, as is their right and maybe purpose. After the birds come the cars, as people begin to whir and buzz into the routines that make up everyday life, drifting along to create some coherent civilization that runs, just so.

After the cars come the dogs. They beg and moan and plead in the backyards across the sunlit world for the people that leave them behind. They yap, snarl, cry, and whine, hoping for something they can’t articulate, and when those cars come home in the late evening they are rewarded. And after the dogs silence themselves, out of pure energy drain, in the bright afternoon hours, comes the housekeepers; the keepers of the domiciles. Lawn-mowers, tree-cutters, mailmen, garbage-collectors, the jobless elderly (who make up the scenery), and random lost children hiding and running, chattering and smoking, being dissolute from their roles as the learning sect. They all make up the mid-morning.

And in this time the birds are silent. They go somewhere. With their morning calls compete they find shelter, or food, or air, or peace, and they wait until their roles are recalled in the day’s sun setting finale. But in their absence a steady drone fills the air with jets packed with travelers working their way to foreign suns, and low-dose helicopters moving in a more reasoned space. Distant boats, strange yells, Steve Buschemi, afternoon cocktails, broken green glass.

The shadows begin to grow long after this point. The crickets make a brief early evening appearance, filling the space that has no reason, before resetting till the dark tar of night takes over, and the only birds usually left are mourning doves. Who hum and haw and make certain to live up fully to their namesake.

By about sundown nearly all is drowned by the grizzled cut of motor-engines returning those early morning departures home. Returned from whatever duty they may have inhibited. They come back filled with frustration, pleasure, fear, beauty; it makes little difference. Some play music loudly, signaling their return in some bizarre way. Others keep the windows locked-up tightly and talk to themselves, recounting the day’s results, ensuing that every vote was indeed counted. And some even sing home by themselves. Some.

It’s around this time that the sun makes its final appearance; playfully, but fallaciously, intermingling with a variety of high-clouds to assume the colors understood as brilliance and splendor. And the birds, dogs, people, crickets, and children all take notice. They absorb it. They smile and recognize the end of the day. They count it, and hope for more. So much more.

And then, darkness falls, deep and true, and I have seen it all. And then, dear friends, with the glue finally dried, the real day has begun.