Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

I am tired of goodbyes, by which I condemn myself to an isolated existence; as I leave family and friends scattered across the globe in the wake of my departures and their own.  I know that their loving energy reaches out in an effort to close the distance between us, as if to embrace and assure me that I am not truly alone.  No longer do I have a sense as to where home lies; for if home is where the heart is, I have carelessly left it in a myriad of places with unlikely caretakers, so that it is simply muddled in confusion over this matter, which has been years in the making.  Or perhaps, in giving it away piece by piece and hiding bits away in such obscure nooks, which I now cannot specifically recall or access, I wonder if anything remains to excavate from within this fleshy shell; while I simultaneously ponder if ever ‘goodbye’ will hold any other meaning than ‘so long forever...’

Unlikely Assailants

The White Stork pair may not nest here for the tranquility of country life or the sweet deal that they landed on the best perch in town. Instead, they receive protection from vigilant sentinels, in exchange for sacrificing some peace and quiet, as the Barn Swallows are constantly jabbering while on duty.

I know, being protected by a swallow may seem far-fetched, considering its small size, but stick with me on this. One may not be able to do much more than provide a tasty meal for a ravenous raptor, but in hordes, they are something to reckon with. Here in Gugny, when they have tired of flying (which is quite rare) and congregate along the power lines, I feel like I have stepped into Alfred Hitchcock’s movie, The Birds, as they leer down at me.

But they don’t just look intimidating. The other day, I witnessed an unidentified falcon in hot pursuit by a swarm of swallows. He swooped in low, miscalculating the angle, and narrowly missed side-swiping the hostel building opposite me. The poor guy made a shaky recovery and glided below the roof, aiming to perch on a nearby fence, so that he could get his wits about him. Yet, this tactic ultimately failed, as he was only granted a few seconds of reprieve, before his assailants swooped in after him.

The following day, another unidentified raptor was scoping out the scene from a comfortable distance overhead. Upon spotting him, the swallows took off screaming vulgarities and chased him away within a matter of minutes. Hours later, a dot in the sky appeared. Even with my binoculars, I couldn’t identify any distinguishing features. He soared in a few easy circles, before disappearing from view. But just because I couldn’t see him any longer, didn’t mean that the threat had diminished. So again, the swallows were on the offensive.

It seems to me that as long as the swallows remain content with their own accommodations, the storks will not need to be particularly vigilant or even lift a feather in defense of their territory. Unless, another stork gets too close, that is.

So what do you think? Does it seem probable or have I been hanging around the birds too much?

Who Would Want to be an Apple?

Fall is in the air. The sun is bright and warm, but doesn’t produce a sweltering heat, which may also be eased by the gentle breeze that flows unhurriedly by. The air smells of earth and apples, plenty of which have already fallen from the trees; forced from the comfort of a sturdy, lush green home, surrounded by fresh, young companions to a morbid mass grave site, only a short distance below, where they face inevitable rot and decay, which completes their circle of life at the conclusion of this harvest season.

Yet, some may escape this unpleasant end, in exchange for another. Those that may be salvaged, whose bruises have not spread like an infection, penetrating to their core, and whose flesh has not been claimed as home to any number of burrowing insects, are carefully scanned, turned hand over hand, tenderly dusted of grit and grass, and placed snug in a bucket among other fallen comrades.

Now, clustered together in anxious anticipation in a single room with only a skylight, they await a plethora of alternative fates, which depend upon the creativity of their grim reaper and the availability of ingredients. Perhaps, they will be chopped into pieces, drowned, and boiled into an unrecognizable pulp. Or maybe, once in bits, they will be drenched in a sticky substance, suffocated between two sealed, heavy sheets, and endure a steadily intensifying, roasting heat.  Or, they may even be pressed between heavy weights until they burst from the unbearable pressure, their innards splattering and juices flowing freely. Some may be even less fortunate, meeting their end slowly and agonizingly, one chomp at a time. But I think that the “best” way to go is really a matter of preference.