Looking out my Backdoor: Slantways, like a crow

That morning, while eating a plata de fruta on the patio, ten feet from the incoming tide, a family of Tenates, Grackles to you and me, swooped onto my table. They look like ill-groomed clowns, like they got up on the wrong side of bed and forgot to comb their hair.

While I believe sharing food is good and honorable, these birds are of the crow family, and like their northern relations, are unrepentant scavengers. I invited them to leave. They grinned, all six of them, and perched on the chair opposite me.

I laughed. I enjoy the antics of these birds. They seem to go about their lives with a “come-what-may” attitude.

With that laugh, I got it. In the very back closet of my mind, high on a shelf, I had formed a puzzlement of wonder at my unusual behavior. Why did I, in that spur-of-the-moment decision, jump on a bus to Mazatlan, for no discernable reason? I got it.

I’m no adherent of geographic solutions to problems. Changing locations seldom solves any sticky situation. But, different surroundings, different people, different atmosphere, can jog one into a different perspective.

Let’s face it. My perspective, my thinking patterns, had gotten dull and stale as last week’s moldy bread slathered with a helping of self-pity and topped with the “if onlys,” a sure slide into depression had I eaten the whole sandwich.

My trip had been a nice break. With the sound of the surf pounding the sand still in my ears, coming home felt like moving backwards from high summer into early spring, wearing a new pair of clean glasses making colors and lines sharper, more vivid.

Since the rains began mid-June, we’ve had rain in Etzatlan nearly every day. Real rain. Rain to fill the city wells, which had dropped to the level of a bucket or two away from restrictions and water rationing. Sunshine days. Thunder rules the nights.

Corn and cane crops are shooting up well past the elephant’s knees. The agave fields are a brighter blue than I’ve ever seen in this dry country.

My own garden does me proud, a salad buffet for the iguanas, except for the roses. Jewel-toned beetles, blue-green in the sunlight, munch the soggy rose petals as fast as they open and the leaves look coated with rust. Ortho and pruning shears to the rescue. I’ll soon have a bed of naked rose stalks. They’ll revive.

I have a pot of beans simmering on the stove and a loaf of fresh-baked bread on the counter. Papaya for dessert. And I’ll slide into my hot tub for a soak before bed.

Instead of despair, I see hope. In place of work, I see fun projects. I’m surrounded by all manner of creatures that talk to me when I make the effort to listen.

I’ll tell you, it is good to pay attention to those silly crows. They know how to live.

——

Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com. Email [email protected].