In Palos Verdes, the cliffs overlook the assortment of beaches and coves like a weaving terrace of basalt and shale, layered with skeletons – the
strata of prehistory.
Climbing out of those towering deserts are bushes and trees. Dry, salt-ridden and barbed, they harbor living creatures above the ocean, for all their inhospitality.
Not long ago I was watching the sea, standing by the cliffs, when I heard a bird singing close by. It was balanced on a gorse bush; singing with such passion, with such blithe intensity that it didn’t notice how close I really was. I was near enough to see the muscles of its throat fluttering, to see the small, sharp beak open to release the notes into the air. I was able to visualize the music, tiny filigrees and arabesques twisting in an invisible fabric: lilting and lowering, as the bird saw fit, to suit the musicale its joyous blood would dictate.
In the city, where I live, I have been hearing music too. Pale and plaintive, it rises with the morning, a lavender echo of breaking clouds and a sunrise swathed in watercolor. A mourning dove – always alone – rests on a telephone wire, its sadness filling the air. All I see is the dark silhouette, but I know well the prism of its feathers: mauve, grey and lilac: the accepted dress colors for Victorian ladies in half-mourning. Though there is only one, its mate is undoubtedly nearby. Whether they are collecting materials for their nest, or scouting for new real estate, their impatient DNA urges them on.
Spring is coming.