A wren landed on my shoulder. Instinctively, I flinched and she bound away. I was dozing because I was in the perfect calm.
It was just past noon on the yard patio.
There are temperatures too high, temperatures too low, and there is the perfect temperature. This is a personal issue, a subjective thing.
On this midday, I am under the Big Brown Umbrella, stretched out in a webbed chair, enveloped in our perfect temperature, probably the high 60s. Our perfect temperature has wiggle room, not cast in rock.
The perfect temperature is a prerequisite for the perfect calm, which I am also in. There is musical backdrop to this. Distant roosters … the flutter of songbirds at the nearby birdbath … visual strokes provided by the orange bush before me where legions of little bees buzz from one blossom to the other. Also, a wasp or two and a black moth who perhaps resents so much busy company.
A gentle breeze under a blue, partly cloudy sky inspires the wind chimes. Daily rains have resurrected the sweet alyssum from its winter doldrums. And then a wren lands on my shoulder.
Had she not startled me, landed on my knee perhaps where I would have recognized her right off, I would not have flinched.
She would have stayed put. We might have begun a conversation, an exchange, a startling breakthrough between species.
Many things are possible in a perfect calm.
Perhaps she’ll come back, give it another shot.