Usually, my early morning walks with Mocha are peaceful. We rise long before many have stirred from their sleep. As paws and tennis shoes hit the pavement, I am awed by the stillness that envelopes us on our circuitous route through the neighborhood. Bayou to the south, skyscrapers to the east, green space to the west and Victorian homes to the north offer a banquet of sites, sounds and smells.
We've had a slow spring in Houston. What that means is that it hasn't gone from near freezing temperatures in February to 90 degrees and 100% humidity in March and April. We've had warm days, but mostly, it's been cool and breezy, reminiscent of May in Big Sur. No one told the birds and squirrels to take their time nesting and enjoy the lingering season. They've silently gone about their business of gathering twigs, string, and discards from their human neighbors to build nests high in the boughs of live oak trees.
Today...silence was broken. As we rounded the corner heading into the sunrise, Mocha heard it first...a frenzied fluttering of wings low above our heads; a warning cry, a second, a third and then descending as if fitted with helicopter blades, the mockingbird hovered over her back and the ancient ritual began. Swoop, hover, peck, cry out, perch from a safe distance, then swoop, hover, peck, cry out, perch from a safe distance. She didn't quite know what to make of this creation dance going on around her head. Puzzled at first, I soon realized our path must be taking us too close to the mockingbird's nest, now most likely filled with the bombadeer's embryos. This dance went on for a good 3 blocks before the sentinel was satisfied we were not going to interfere with creation.
Tomorrow, we'll take a different route and leave the birds in peace, that is until our ears pick up on the tapping of egg shells and the peep of new voices lending themselves to the ritual of our daily walk and that of spring.
