Sitting in the backyard in the morning certainly forces attention to the present moment. How easily I allow my mind to ruminate over the past or fret over the future as I lie in bed waking up. I carry those useless thoughts outside, and they evaporate in the morning air. My senses take over, processing what is going on around me.
The birds have an entire subculture existing around us. The crows are the loud, brash bullies. The sparrows are the protectors. The hummingbirds are neutral--too wise to be involved in petty squabbles of the crows and sparrows. They need to learn to tell time though, because they check the fountain often before it comes on, zipping in wide arcs around the top until they realize the water is not flowing. It's like musical chairs when the water does come on; whoever is closest gets the first bath.
A few more garden maintenance thoughts creep into my current stream. I push them aside. I am not a gardener right now. I am a visitor. I still want to go over and pluck a few spent flowers, just to remove the distraction. I stop myself; it is more useful to practice removing the thoughts.
The fountain comes to life: first a small gurgling sound at the top, and then the overflow of the top level as water comes cascading down. Then the second level in turn overflows, completing the resurrection. I sit and wait for the schedule-challenged hummingbirds.
There is much more noise now: the fountain, more traffic, the whiz of a landscaper's engine. I can't hear the birds much anymore. Maybe it is time to start gardening. But wait--here comes a hummingbird to take his morning bath. I watch him dip and buzz. Another comes to chase him away. My turn! he says.
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