Somewhere up in the locust tree, the mother robin is feeling it:
Mrs. R: "It seems like only a few weeks ago they were pecking their way out of the shells, and I wore myself ragged (sniff sniff) keeping those little gaping gullets full of grubs and bugs, and now there they are, all fledged out, sitting on the lawn - the very same lawn (sob) you dropped the empty eggs shells on (dabs eyes with wing). Honey - do you remember?"
Mr. Robin: "Yes, dear, I remember."
Mrs. R: "Oh look, there they are, all together! They look so grown-up! I think two of them take after your side."
Mr. R: "Honestly, my dear, can't tell them apart..."
Mrs. R: (glaring like a Cooper's hawk) Oh, what a terrible thing to say about your own children!!"
At this point my phone rang, so I didn't get to hear the rest of the conversation, to find out if Mr. Robin was able to come up with a save. Yesterday I posted a photo of a baby robin from Wikimedia Commons, because I didn't have any photos of the local babies, but late yesterday afternoon I got one of all three. And those are the eggshells I picked up from the grass and saved. I'm a little sentimental about those babies, too, I guess.
The Cloud Messenger (Meghadūta) is a lyric poem by the respected Indian poet, Kālidāsa. The poem centers around a yaksa in exile. Longing for his beloved, waiting for him on a Himalayan mountain, he asks a cloud to take a message to her. The sights he tells the cloud it will see on its way make up most of the poem.
The idea of recording observations appeals to me. I thought The Cloud Messenger was the perfect title for a blog about the journey that we all make as we move through our days.
I'm a baby boomer who grew up dancing in the streets of Detroit during the classic Motown years, lived beside the Rocky Mountains for many years, now retired and living (and writing full time) in S. Ontario. I have one blog for rock 'n' roll oldies, and one for nature, poetry and life along the Lake.