27 April 2020. Phoebe.
A small bird with such a decisive name. Makes you want to say it more than once. A fly-catcher, something C taught me--the narrow pointed bill, good for bugs on the wing. Not one of those grubby nut grinders, who earn their keep by foraging seeds--nor a worm-digger, like the robin. We do have robins, of course, and in the right season, the white-crowned sparrow. Tiny bush-tits, monochromatic chickadee. The color of the jay standing in for an entire pallette--that radiant blue...
One morning, many years ago, en route up into the Sierras to meet B and friends in the town of Sierraville. A small handmade house on one of the side streets. (But they were all side streets in Sierraville.) I'd left Berkeley at dawn, making good time, so that when I reached the foothills, the full sun was just coming through the oaks, filtering the light. California. I noticed a sign--Sutter's Mill, and decided to stop--nobody there--just the valley air, good smell of earth and trees...
History unfolding, even our own...
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Note: For the non-Californians, Sutter's Mill was the place where gold was first discovered, in 1848...
