...he rocks in the treetop all day long/hoppin' and a boppin' and singin' his song....
I lean against the sill of my bathroom window, gazing through the crosshatched grid of summer screen to watch tiny sparrows bathe in puddles left by rain on my flat porch roof. Wings flipping into blur, they stop, sip delicately from shining patches of silver.
A tuft-busted robin, who looks as though he's been on the wrong end of an argument with a cat, flies down to bully the smaller birds. Most of them ignore him, which seems to inspire further chest-swelling and intimidatory space-invading. A couple of sparrows flit away. One refuses. The robin flies at him, pecking, chasing. The sparrow darts and dodges, returning to the roof after confusing the robin with quick feints and redoubling moves. The ones that were driven off follow, resuming their activities.
Restful as it is to watch this peaceful moment, after the previous, if tiny, drama, it is less than compelling. The quiet swoosh of the window frame sliding shut sends the sparrows scattering like brown seeds blown about the yard.
If all my naked moments were like this, I'd probably never get dressed.