Mockingbird in the Rain

My husband is working under the house, adding support under the floor before ordering a pool table.  It’s been raining — well, mostly sprinkling — off and on all morning.  I went out in it to get the last college errands taken care of before leaving tomorrow to spend several weeks with my recently widowed mother in another state.  It was cold and grey, and for once I didn’t care — the school year’s over and I’m happy just to have a break.

Back home, I’ve been taking care of emails, browsing the websites I enjoy reading — oh, glory, to do so on a Monday mid-morning! — and listening to the sounds of drills and hammers and moving lumber beneath me.  The sky began to lighten, so I decided to go outside and call an “I love you” under the house.

As I reached the corner where the hackberry tree stands, a huge raven lifted heavily from the grass and flew off in slow motion.  Good riddance.  Then I heard a bird singing above me, first one song, then a second, and I looked up and around for the mockingbird he had to be.  There he was, on a nearly bare branch high up on the redbud tree outside the crawl space entrance.  I watched for a couple of minutes as he went through one repertoire, sat silent for awhile, all the time looking all around the sky, then began another repertoire, completely different.  Sprinkles fell from the sky and he didn’t even shake his wings, just continued to sing while keeping watch over his territory.

The rain began to fall a bit more heavily and I moved slowly around the corner toward the shelter of the eaves, reluctant to frighten him and yet more reluctant to get soaked.  He continued to sing until I was nearly underneath, then off he flew, no doubt indignant at the interruption.

As I sit inside now in my corner room study, I hear him again, singing from the same spot, celebrating the returning sun.

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5 thoughts on “Mockingbird in the Rain

  1. Beth — I’m developing something of a scruple about calling you by your first name! Although you’ve never objected, it does seem — all of a sudden — to be a mite presumptuous of me. Of course, calling you Dr Impson might be a tad too formal. There has to be a tertium quid, another choice, a compromise, as it were. Would you object to the slight jocularity of being called Doc? Or should I stick with the tried and true, and jettison my scruple about calling you Beth?

  2. Tom — I am perfectly fine with “Beth” between writer friends who have even been published in the same journal! I should find “Doc” very odd, I think, almost placing me on some kind of intellectual plane I don’t deserve. Believe me, a doctorate is no big deal in comparison to living real life . . . !

  3. Then “Beth” it is, and shall be — although I do like bestowing honorifics that are very well-deserved! (There is a young woman whom I call alternately by her first name and by the lovely Italian title “signorina”! But that is, perhaps, a different matter!)

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