A Saturday Morning
Good Saturday morning. The bluebirds are nesting. They flit (there’s no other word) from the telephone wire to the bluebird house to the graceful limb of the live oak. My uncle rues their use of the Purple Martin house, but I’m glad someone is using it. Soon we could have babies. Or maybe we have them now. All I have to do is lower the little door of their house and peek in. My sister assures me that bluebirds like humans to check on them. I just might do it.
The rabbits have hidden themselves. I would say they’re sleeping in on a Saturday morning, but they’ve been gone for a while. I’m sure they are cyclical in a way I don’t understand. The folks here call them “Katrina rabbits,” because when the storm took down all the houses and left vacant lots that grew up with brush, the rabbits proliferated. They are big, fat rabbits. Fastidious, too—they poop on an old stump as if it were a toilet. And, thankfully, they are fast, as Evangeline likes to chase them. No, she hasn’t chased them away. We’ve been seeing them for the six years we’ve had this beach house on the street where children used to swarm until the storm took down the houses then we built our own places as if we are part of the regeneration following the destruction. Humans. Rabbits. Maybe we’re more connected than we think.
The palm tree has fancied itself up this Saturday morning. Of course, it had help. I’ve never known a palm to drape itself in Mardi Gras beads. But there the beads are, sparkling turquoise in the sun. Above its new necklace, the leaves of the palm rattle in the breeze, content. Proud, even. Or at the very least oblivious of us humans. High overhead, a blue bird swivels its neck. Looking for a rabbit, no doubt. Or maybe Evangeline.