The Bird Of Heaven

Feathered Fellas

Birds are the eyes of Heaven. - Suzy Kassem

Today is about a perfect night and spicy-style seafood and the stars.

And the bird of heaven.

But I’m getting ahead of the story. So let's start at the beginning.

The breeze is just strong enough to erase the lingering heat of the day. We're sitting on the open deck of the Koh Lanta restaurant, a hidden gem all the way out, almost at Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi airport. The enclosed porch overhangs a man-made lake, giving the illusion of floating above the water.  

Truly.

Everything is laid out nicely and has beautiful finishes and things that sparkle and shine.

Can you picture it?

Above us, the stars are beginning to emerge, brilliant pinpricks in the velvety sky. The torches lining the deck have been lit, sending a glimmer on the water below. 

Mmm... Can you smell the basil and turmeric in the air? It's the smell of a night of just-extra eating. The restaurant is famous for its seafood which reputedly all comes from the local Samut Prakan port. We're waiting for our order of spicy-style fish, shrimp, crab and pad thai, of course, a Thai favorite.

Are you getting hungry yet?

We're watching the planes departing and arriving from the airport every five minutes until suddenly... 

... suddenly, it shows up. I stare at it, speechless. 

Are you ready? If you've paid attention earlier, you will have guessed correctly.

A black-necked crane! Sorry, I did say, 'bird of heaven,' so you're correct... same difference.

It's the most splendid-looking water fowl I've ever seen. Its body is whitish-grey while its tail, long legs, neck, and head are black. The eyes and bill are yellow. On its head, I can see a small, white patch. A distinct red patch of bare skin adorns its crown. 

A long time ago, the black-necked crane was claimed to be the messenger and harbinger of the highest heaven. It would rise above the clouds into endless space, disappearing from the sight of earthbound mortals.

So I sit there in silence, listening to the sound and movement of wings hovering the water.

Feeling the space, a safe haven to float.

Waiting when perhaps I, with them, would reach for the celestial heights.

To Iris, On Her Birthday

From my pre-blogging days, here’s one that was written with a smile in my heart, September 2011.

You Are The…

Bean in my burrito, cookie dough in my DQ,

Aria in my cantata, lox in my frittata.

Blueberry in my trifle, whipped topping on my waffle, 

Sampaguita of my essential oil, yellow daisy in my garden soil.

Banana in my smoothie, chairman of my committee,

Blue coloring in my slurpee, lemon in my iced tea.

Shoulder when I cry, wings when I fly,

Cure to my aray! - truth behind my lie.

In short, you are the rainbow in my sky,

The IRIS of my eye.

Snowy Egret

Feathered Fellas

Haiku written on drive home from Makapu'u Beach

snowy great egret,

stuns in stark simplicity

against the wetlands.

White Stork

Feathered Fellas

If we Reader’s Digest this entry, it will have this storyline. 

Feathered, long-legged, long-necked, plus-size mates.  

Literally living the high life.

Sticking with it.

And ending with happily-ever-after. Year after year. 

(Total aside: please tell me you’ve always wanted to use Reader’s Digest as a verb, too.)

We were traveling by bus, maybe in Cappadocia or Pamukkale in Turkey (I don't really remember where), when our guide Mele asked the driver to stop the bus. It was completely unplanned. Completely unexpected.  

Up there! she yelled. We peeked out of the bus windows.

Two white storks. 

Both were standing, ignoring us, in a large nest made of sticks about six feet in diameter and ten feet in depth that was precariously seated atop a building tower. 

Seriously.

Did I mention that they were about 95 feet up on a narrow ledge? 

But not to worry.

The high perch afforded safety as well as ease of take-off. If you had a wingspan of six to seven feet, you'd need plenty of space to spread your wings and catch the air before you dropped to the ground.

A flurry blew across as one of the storks (presumably the male), which had sat so still moments before, flew across the sky. As it floated overhead, it turned its eye downward in curiosity. It was circling above - moving in huge, lazy circles. Then, it soared. Its long, red legs dangled. Its wings were splayed wide and majestic directly above us. 

Can you hear the flapping behind the wind?

But it was quiet on the nest.

It will not always be like that, Mele explained, her lips twisting into something like a smile. After all that waiting, all that pacing...

... hatchlings will come out.

The mother and father will feed the young for several weeks after they've learned to fly, then the young are on their own, she continued. They leave the nest after a couple of months to winter in Africa.

Aww... 

Not to fret. That wasn't The End. The same time next year, the storks would come home to mate in Selçuk. It's a channeling of return-to-Capistrano, with an Asian flair. 

Did you just sigh? 

There’s going to be a new chapter. A new beginning at the very top of this same pillar. (Double sigh).

The air was crisp as the bus moved on. 

I couldn't have written the script any better if I tried.

Love Is A Grandparent

Grandparents' Day
September 8, 2019

Inspired by and adapted from Love Is A Grandparent by Erma Bombeck

This is for little folks who wonder what a grandparent is.

A grandparent can always be counted on to buy your Ritz Bits and Oreo cookies, ramen noodle, two kinds of peanut butter (creamy and chunky), Purple Cow ice cream, blue raspberry Speedy Freeze, pineapple and mangoes from Aldi, Pirates Booty popcorn, root beer, Whips chocolate yogurt, and ABC watermelon gum.

A grandparent buys you gifts your mother says you don't need - like more Shopkins or LPS miniature characters, a poop-oozing unicorn key chain, or Fortnite upgrades.

Grandparents arrive three hours early for your baptism so they can see everything, fly overseas for your preschool graduation, or withstand the wintry cold to spend Christmas holidays with you. 

Grandparents will sit through Purple Mermicorn soccer and Dirty Dawgs flag football games, cheering and capturing goals and touchdowns on video; and join in a raucous pizza party after a water park or ziplining birthday celebration.

Grandparents pretend they don't know who you are on Halloween.

When you go play hide and seek, they act as if they couldn't find you, even when a chubby leg is in plain sight behind a curtain. When you come out after a bath in your dragon robe and sneak behind their back, they pretend to be scared out-of-their-wits every single time.

Grandparents will put a sweater on you when they are cold, and feed you when they are hungry.

Grandparents will have an album and a bulging file of your artwork, including various handmade gifts, crafts, and an outline of your hands that you had traced; and display a hand-tied multicolored felt quilt in their mostly-white and neutral living room.

Grandparents will sit by you when you practice for your piano recital, when you go on a nature adventure to look for geckos or catch curly worms, and when you mix potions, smiling even if the food color spills on the wood floor.

And know that, most of all, grandparents are not and will never be in a hurry for you to grow up.

Beebeh

Feathered Fellas

Today was on its way to quickly becoming a terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day. Summer, with all its heat and humidity, showed up.

And guess what else?

A Pateros duckling that Mum bought on a whim at the talipapa wet market.

He was a scrawny little thing, flapping his wings and squawking as he stalked about importantly on squat, bow legged feet. 

At first sight, I already knew that as far as days went, today would rank up with other life changing events in my life because... well, I'll tell ya.

I knew that he existed to ultimately reign supreme in the household, being the latest whimsy of a pet for my spoiled youngest sibling.

Truth. 

When I was in a better mood, Beebeh, for that was what we decided to call him (it was the vernacular for duck), seemed to be quite cute. 

Softly emitting shrill high-pitched sounds, he sometimes danced around me so closely that I could see his brown eyes and the curve of his blue-gray beak. Except for the crown and nape which were black, the rest of his body was fluffy, light yellow. Beebeh was so diminutive that when he tugged at foraged worms and slugs or pecked on the cracked corn from the wooden feeder, all that I could see were the curly feathers on top of his tail.

But cuteness didn't work for me. He drove me crazy.

Every.Single.Day.

I could have sworn he was my buddy when I left for Roxas High in the morning, so I couldn't understand how he would turn devilish by the time I got back home. As soon as I opened the gate, who do you suppose was watching behind the adelfa bush?

The rascal.

I could see him cocking his head, examining me with one eye and then the next. Then, he would launch himself into the air, landing with a thud by my feet, and would start to chase me to the worn stone pathway leading to the house. Even old dog Voltaire, who was napping on the bottom step of the stairs, looked puzzled whenever this happened.

Of course, I ran and once inside, I would give him a tauntingly victorious grin. Pecking at a piece of rotting pandesal bread on the ground, he would feign an expression of utter nonchalance toward his failed chase. It was all a game to this eccentric creature.  

I’m not overstating it. Not even a little. He was silly, definitely daffy, and was the bane of my life.

Now that he's gone, all has been back to normal. 

I’ve imagined what this moment would be like. Maybe I’d jump up and down a bit, cheer, or even flip off the ground, but that hasn’t happened.

I stand by. Waiting.

Where's the imp who chased at my feet? 

Where's the mischief-maker who poked around in the grass at dusk?

Why can't I hear the indignant clucking of someone being shooed into the coop at night?

Meh.

I’m not here to indulge in nostalgia. All I need is to do a control-Z and get a fresh outlook.

It has fallen quiet for the night. There are no peeping sounds, just the rumble of passing Marikina buses. My head is heavy, my eyelids, too, so I lie down on the pillow and close my eyes.

The pinkish-orange glow on the horizon has highlighted a smattering of clouds, but that will change soon enough. Rain is coming my way.

I’ve dozed off in spite of myself.