Postcards from the Ledge – 3

From the “Nature finds a way” division of the Ledge…

When, way back in January, or was that February,
we, meaning Kory… with me directing from without,
frantically threw everything in the studio kitchen
out onto the studio porch
after finding yet another round of rodential invasion…

the bench filled up with things that were destined to live in the garage…
but needed to be sorted…
so that never happened.

Herself has been wanting to clear it off so guests could have a place to sit.

But we don’t get many guests,
and now…well…
we have had to implement a staging area
for decontamination of deliveries from the big bad world.

You may be able to imagine my surprise when
upon reaching for the blue bag
our resident wren flew up and at me and, with a powerful
shrillness, bade me to step away from her nest.

Twice in the days since I have impulsively reached for that bag.
And both times I swore at my forgetfulness…
almost as solemnly as she
swore at me.

So yesterday I decided a tactile barricade was needed.

Not for her, but for me.

A quarantine
within
the quarantine.

It takes a village.
Take care of each other out there.

Here’s a very early piece, so early that I was still painting in my old studio…
and it was Gulliver by my side.

A Dissembling Breeze – 2002

My studio is on stilts. Telephone polls really. Sixteen feet in the air.
We live in a flood zone by this gently flowing creek.
During hurricane Agnes in the early 70’s the entire cabin was under water.
The single foot of it’s chimney remaining above water gaining mythological proportions.
So when they rebuilt the washed away garage it had to be above the highest flood level.

The supporting beams and joists underneath my tree top studio are exposed.
For the last two seasons an industrious couple of sparrows
have been constructing a condo under there.
Massive in scale I suspect them to be former hippies ever redesigning the commune.
Celebrating diversity, they have woven in feathers from every visiting species and a
generous helping of wool from Pat’s grandmother’s hooked rug
which rests on the steps beneath.

The other day,
on our fifty foot commute to work,
Gully and I found the nest fallen to the pavement below.
A treasure for me… at some cost to the dear ones.

For months thereafter we heard them busily knocking about below our painting feet.
The subsequent structures lacked some vital element
because they lasted only an average of a few days.

It has been a dry hot summer.
I don’t expect them back until spring now.
In the meantime I am collecting a pile of feathers and pine needles and dog hair
at the base of the studio steps.
We are not expecting rain.

 

 

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