Looking out my Backdoor: My world and welcome to it

My world is all I have to share. My world is ordinary. It is not much of a gift. Since it is all I have to give, I gladly welcome you through my doorway.

Take today. I got up on the “wrong side of bed” so to speak. Instead of getting up when I woke up, I let myself go back to sleep “for just a few minutes.” It’s not like I have a schedule. When I did get out of bed, much later, I felt like I was living in a vat of molasses in January, every movement forced through a fugue state. You ever done that?

Walk dog. Make coffee. Slog through my morning reading, good stuff but with a presentation dry as dust. Seems to fit my day.

My daughter calls on her hands-free phone on her way to work; our chat part of our morning routine. Suddenly I interrupt her. I hear a whap of wings, and the black-bottomed whistling ducks fly over my wall into my neighbor’s tree, first the female, then the male.

And just like that, my world of woe turns upside down. (Or is that right side up?) “The whistling ducks are back. The ducks are back!” I shouted and laughed. Inside me, I sang and danced.

These ducks delight me. These strange and beautiful ducks have a distinct whistle-call and nest in trees. I’ve watched them return to set up summer housekeeping every year.

I won’t say they are the most intelligent of ducks. They return to the same tree, to the same hollow where at one time years ago, a large branch was cut off. Every year I watch them nest and lay eggs in the hollow. Every year I watch the iguanas climb up the tree and eat the duck eggs.

One year, this pair of black-bottomed whistling ducks laid two clutches of eggs before giving up, flying back over my wall the other direction into the huge tree in Lani’s yard, a tree whose branches spread to cover more area than the average city lot, a tree which houses numerous varieties of birds, seasonal tourists as well as residents.

It is spring here as well as there. My day fills and ends with birdsong and cicada shrill. Well, it is difficult for me to call cicada racket a song, but then the world is filled with all kinds of song, so who am I to judge.

The cicadas are early, quite early, this year. Local lore has it that they sing down the rains. Oh, please, let the rains come early, too.

Among the songs and sounds, the roosters’ crows punctuate the airwaves. It is a myth that roosters crow when the sun comes up. They sound off any and every hour of the day and night. It is by happenstance when their crow coincides with sunrise.

And the donkey. The neighboring donkey is further away from us than his piercing, intrusive bray sounds. That’s all I need say about the donkey. The two burros next door have gentle voices in comparison.

The whistling ducks are still atop the tree, preening and posturing. My daughter and I are still exchanging yesterday’s news. She pulls into her friend Vicki’s coffee stand for our morning treat. Dee Dee generally orders a honey bee latte, iced, and I mull over the special of the day for my virtual coffee. Today it is caramel macchiato. Perfect. A sweet drink for a sweet day.

I thank Vickie for the drink as my daughter prepares to drive to her office. I hear Vickie yell back, “Bye, Mom.” I love that. It’s a marvelous day in my world when the whistling ducks return.

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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 http://montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com/. Email [email protected].