The Summer Shower
Ephemeral Moments
I stand, leaning against the railing of my balcony, my skin and soul absorbing the dripping fog, my ears bathed in the melody of the rain. It falls softly. Gentle, fat drops thunk against the parched earth, kicking up dust before sinking in. This low-lying summer shower, carried on the mist, brings with it a different scent than the loamy winter drizzles or the pounding spring storms.
It smells of burnt moss, the minerals of the earth, and fuzzy desert sage.
In the quiet of the shorter, and darker, days of the year, dense mats of baby’s tears and creeping mosses tiptoe their way up my stone steps. They glow in the shadows under the pines. The winter exhales the richness of those carpets.
But, this time of year, after the solstice, when the world feels sticky with heat, when the sun slants low across my garden, those mosses are toasted golden brown. At the first sign of moisture, they will breathe new life for a little while. And next fall they will resume their march up through the dirt gaps between the stones and then will spill over the sides of the path. But right now, they are resting, waiting for the bigger rains.
I look to the lime tree, its leaves puddled in dew, and I think about the baby Mountain Chickadees, born in our pines in the early days of summer. This might be their first rain, ever.
What must they think?
Do they flutter and flap their new wings, relishing this miracle from the sky, which now dampens their roost? Do they look to their parents, asking, “did you know?”
The hummers screech and chirrup, their wings buzzing. I can feel the tiny currents of wind which they make fluttering against my cheek. In their minds, I am the “Nectar Goddess,” the one who refills their feeders each day. And, so they allow me to stand mere feet away from them after I return the “forty- ounce Big Gulp” to its hook. Often, they will hover just inches from me, twisting their heads one way, and then another, trying to make sense of my presence. But then, hunger wins, and they drink.
It is high season for the hummingbirds. The locals are finding their carefully carved-out territories shredded by the arrival of tourists from Mexico — the tiny, but ferocious, Rufous Hummingbirds. Some will stay here all summer. And others decide to spend their time in the Rocky Mountains. But, many of them migrate as far as Alaska, a two thousand-mile journey.
Despite their miniscule proportions (the Black Chinned Hummingbirds outweighs the Rufous twice over), the Rufous strikes terror, or at least agitation, in the hearts of the local males. Like Kung-Fu masters, they dart in and dive down and entice their opponents to chase them. Then, they rush in to fill their tiny bellies with sugar water. And then, the ballet of terror starts all over again.
The gentle Black Chinned hummer, whom we have named “Black Beard,” sits to the left side of the feeder, in his usual spot. He’s old. You can tell by his mottling, and also by his unperturbable personality. He always chooses this particular spot. I think it is because he can see across the valley from there. He looks as if he is meditating. He sips, then gazes into the distance, then sips again.
But, this morning, it seems as if a Rufous has destroyed his moment, dive-bombing him wildly, then flying erratically away.
These days, my six feeders are drained almost daily. Oftentimes, I wake in the morning to the utter pandemonium that ensues when one feeder has been emptied. The strict pecking order which has been established at the other feeders then gets thrown into complete disarray.
I love these noisy, screechy hummingbird days of July and August. But, I imagine the locals are quite eager for the tourists to go home.
This morning, they all dart through the mist, their tiny angel-wing shadows gliding through the dewdrops in the air.
My kitties, all rescue-babies, but all beating with the blood of a little bit of Maine Coon, cannot resist the ancient call of water.Unlike most cats, in the heat of the summer sun they dangle their little legs into the pool, and they fish leaves out of the fountain. They have all gone overboard, at least once, and swam their way to the shallow end. And, they LOVE the rain. They dash off into the drizzle, raindrops glistening in their fur, and return to me with mud-soaked between-the-toes fur.
Today, Mr. Squirrel, announcing his arrival for breakfast, chatters and chirps at the cats from his perch in the Bird of Paradise before gliding, like a zip-liner, down to the birdfeeder. Sometimes, I think that he thinks he is actually one of them. He is, definitely, part of the family.
On ornery days, he takes great delight in shredding pine-cones to tiny bits and then taking precise aim with his little “missiles from above” at the cats from his safe place in the heights of the pines Other days, he taunts them by allowing them to sneak up, just close enough to think they might catch him. Then, he turns his fluffy, bottle-brush tail and scampers, with delight, up the nearest tree.
The kitties are all quite dexterous tree-climbers, especially little Freyja, the baby of the family. But, Mr. Squirrel loses them when he clings to a branch from one foot, like an acrobat, and then launches himself into the next tree over, chattering away like a mad man the whole time.
I don’t think that they would know what to do if they actually ever caught up to him. I think that they see him as half-cat too.
The rain is falling a little harder now, pebbling the surface of the pool, from which a soft mist rises to mix with the light fog cloaking the backyard. The sky hangs low and heavy, inky clouds trailing veils of vapor. I breathe it all in again, savoring the scent of summer. Tomorrow, the sun will shine brightly once more, dancing across the Robin’s Egg blue of the sky. But for today, I am so grateful that the endless dry days of California summer have been punctuated by this little burst of tears from heaven.
I hope you enjoyed this story of the summer shower we experienced the other morning. You might also enjoy reading a bit more about some of these “characters” in my yard.
Story and photos ©Erika Burkhalter. All rights reserved.
