Known By The Company You Keep

Some Of My Favorite Poets Are Blue.

With three hundred and twenty some miles yet to cover on my drive home, yesterday I smiled and said yes, once again to that curious and prophetic little voice, the one that never demands but often suggests, the one so easy to ignore and explain away if you’re of that mind, the one I’ve spent a lifetime trying to befriend, to hear, to consider, to be worthy of …to remain true to.

“Turn west at the next road running in that direction,” the voice said calmly. “Something out there you’re gonna wanna see. I’ve just got a feeling.”

A mile passed before that prescient, west-pointed road finally appeared. I turned across the highway and drove slowly toward the mountains thinking they must be that ‘something’ I was supposed to be looking for, some perfectly picturesque vantage to capture them beneath azure skies in all their snowy, mid-winter glory. I pulled off onto the shoulder three different times, got out, walked the road and fence line trying to properly line up those snow-capped peaks between foreground and mid-distant junipers but honestly, never felt particularly wowed by any the shots I framed up and captured. Oh well.

Good enough, but, only just…

When I came to a railroad crossing at the bottom of a gentle slope a few miles out I turned around and headed back toward the highway I’d exited twenty minutes earlier, thinking I should rejoin that wider, busier asphalt ribbon headed north, start making progress homeward again. I still had six hours of driving ahead of me.

Less than a mile before reaching the intersection, an unexpected flash of blue, then another, and yet another streaked past ahead of me, flaring to a trio of landings atop a barb-wire fence. Between me and these ‘heaven-blue’ aerialists, eight feet of asphalt, ten feet of cinder-red gravel and a large, frozen puddle with crunchy edges.

“You saw that, right?” the voice inquired.

A quick glance in the rearview while steadily applying brakes, to make sure I wasn’t about to start some unwanted chain reaction, but by the time I’d slowed to a stop I was nearly thirty feet beyond the muddy, roadside ice rink, so I shifted my rig into reverse, backed slowly up and across that westbound lane and onto the safety of frozen gravel just a few feet from the ice. I rolled down my window and turned off the key. Silence.

Only one of the three bluebirds remained on the string of barb-wire and he was studying me like some twitchy shaman peering into the maze of tea leaves at the bottom of an empty cup. “You good omen or bad?’ he seemed to ask with a sideways glance.

“I’m not here to hurt you.” I spoke just loud enough to be sure he could hear.

Moments later a whorl of blue and chatter; two dozen bluebirds, mostly ‘mountains’ but a few ‘westerns,’ I think, and a handful of larger, red-breasted robins flew in, alighting along the far edge of the frozen puddle where they immediately began stretching their feathered necks low to the ground to gather mouthfuls of melt water, then raising their heads skyward to accept gravity’s assistance and flow.

Thirsty!

Cold days and bitter, cold nights, thirsty. High sage and juniper desert with everything frozen solid, thirsty! Juniper berries for breakfast, thirsty. Frozen mud puddle as sacred watering hole, thirsty.

A semi pulling a livestock trailer rolled past in an emphatic, diesel huff and every single one of these azure poets leapt into the air and scattered. I waited a minute, then got out of my rig to look around. Not a sign of them. Not one, anywhere. But I had this lingering sense that they hadn’t yet filled their bellies, that they were still feeling a little dehydrated.

“I’m gonna just get out that lox and cream cheese bagel,” I reasoned, “have an early, roadside lunch here and wait a bit. I’d bet money they’ll be back.”

Five minutes passed. Then ten. I was starting to get a bit fidgety. Finally, a pair of mountain bluebirds flew in, alighting on the fence wires, one above the other. A scouting party perhaps?

A few minutes of silent trust building, quiet, mutual observation.

And then, once again, a chatty swarm of thirsty, blue-feathered acrobats dropped down out of an identically colored sky, appearing from no apparent ‘where’, landing at the icy puddle’s ragged edge just as before, and immediately dipping low, extending necks, submerging pointed, black, insect-catching beaks into thin pools of melt water, then raising their heads up to the sky, letting the icy liquid flow down their throats. There was an urgency to it all, but also a nonchalance and a kind of shared trust. The sense of community was palpable.

Of course, they knew, quite certainly that I was right there with them but no one seemed much concerned. When I moved around a bit inside my truck, no one spooked or flew away so I continued to nosh on bites of bagel sandwich and pinch myself while trying to take in every wondrous little moment, and as the spirit moved, to capture some of their lovely, azure antics in photos.

According to the dashboard clock, we tarried there, together for nearly a half hour, warmed just enough by clear skies and vitamin-rich sunlight on a day where temperatures hovered in the mid-thirties and melting, muddy ice proved once again the magical, mineral-rich elixir of life.

And then, just as suddenly as they had arrived, they all lifted off and disappeared into that bluebird-colored sky, once again. The icy watering hole was silent. The sun was still shining and I was absolutely calmed and glowing from the inside out.

“Time to hit the road, Davey,” the familiar voice whispered.

And so, I tucked away my camera, fastened my seatbelt and turned that weathered key…

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