The clouds were heavy with rain and moving fast when
the bird flew out of them like a silver arrow, down to
the sharp peak of the farmhouse roof.

The old woman saw it happen. It was when she was outside
shooing the children away from the new swing-set and back
inside the house. As their little legs were running along
the path to the kitchen door, when the first fat raindrops
were falling on their play-tousled heads and making one
complain and the others laugh, she had stopped and stood
in the yard for a second, just to catch her breath.

Only a moment before she had been doing the housework indoors,
busily making the beds, and she had felt rather than heard a
lot of thunder in the distance, where the storm was striking
the ground with its monstrous hammers. Now, the screen door
slammed shut behind the children and she looked upwards, alarmed
by the sudden darkening of the summer morning and the high,
whistling winds in the sky overhead. The old woman had an
impression of lightning at first, but it was actually the bird
flying down to her roof.

And after nightfall, after the children had fallen asleep finally,
arms and legs sprawled across their beds, the old woman had
checked her bird book and been able to identify the bird. She`d
had a clear sighting of its elegant silhouette when the retreating
storm was grumbling away off toward the west, sounding a lot like
a mean old man and flashing its complicated lightning along the
hilly horizon, and the bird was still standing motionless on the
peak of her roof. It was one of those homing pigeons.

On the morning after the storm, as always, she was up and out in
the earliest warm rays of sunshine. The whole world had been
showered clean and happy little breezes were teasing the fresh
new flower buds and making the old woman smile.

She was also amazed and delighted to see the bird again, just a
quick glimpse of its distinctive shape around behind the chicken
coop, where she supposed it had been feeding. She thought how
exhausted the poor thing must be after flying all alone cross-
country like that... and also about how sensible the bird was, to
have stopped at her place for a rest. She got close enough to see
the orange plastic band on his little black leg.

The old woman was quite certain that the homing pigeon was a male,
but she couldn`t explain the feeling other than to tell herself
that the bird had a free-wheeling attitude, an indomitable and
forceful look in his clear golden eyes. And then too, she thought
wryly, the bird was making a pit-stop at her place, and wasn`t that
just like a man?

It was such a hot morning that day, with waves of steam rising off
the greenery everywhere, like a smoke-screen. The children were
having lots of fun playing hide-and-seek in the foggy orchard.

And now the bird was attempting to hide among the chickens, while
pecking selectively at the grain she had scattered earlier. But
there was such a sharp contrast between the meaty, short-sighted
cluckers and the long-winged bird of the sky that the effect bordered
on the comical. The old woman chuckled to herself and the bird turned
his iridescent back to her, his dignity unimpaired. He had very
little in common with the pigeons you might see in a city park either.
She definitely could not imagine this streamlined, far-sighted bird
sitting on Queen Victoria`s dirty statue, cooing among some pigeon-mob.

She decided she would get the children to help her in the garden that
afternoon.

By then the sun was simply blazing and all the plants were dry and
glowing with health - perfect. She explained to the youngsters that
the vegetables would all taste very much better if they were harvested
right away, and her little helpers picked quite a lot between them. The
old woman smiled and told herself that they would all sleep well tonight.

Some things could go directly into the root-cellar in baskets and the
other stuff went to the kitchen to be either canned or frozen. She asked
the children to play indoors for the rest of the day so that she could
keep an eye on them while she worked, and they didn`t put up much of an
argument at all.

By the time the big red sun was dropping down out of sight the two
youngest had fallen asleep on the sofa, using their picture books for
pillows. The old woman had to carry them both upstairs and put them to bed.

She was almost startled to see the bird again the next morning, but she
did. It was a very windy day and when she was struggling to hang the
washing out on the line she saw him flying all around her farm in great
dizzying circles. And a bit later he came down to feed among the chickens.
As she was scattering the grain she dared to hope that he might actually
settle down with her for a while... and possibly she could even try to
get some more of these wonderful birds some day. They could fly so high
and travel so far...

That pleasant thought warmed her tired mind. The children had been awfully
unruly at breakfast and they had left quite a mess behind them for her to
clean up too. The old woman set the feed bucket down on the ground at her
feet and breathed deeply of the warm winds that were surrounding her with
the perfume of the roses that were newly blooming alongside the garden path.
She saw the bird go up to the top of her farmhouse roof again, with his
seemingly effortless flight. There was that same sound she recalled hearing
before, a pure whistling tone that always happened when his wind-span sliced
through the air like a sabre.

Just then all the children came running around the corner of the garden
fence in the exact order of their age and height, the littlest one at the
end of the line with a determined frown on his small face and both shoelaces
untied. The old woman laughed out loud and called to the little boy, who
ran over to her. Her strong old arms lifted him up and the child snuggled his
face into his grandmother`s comforting and familiar shoulder.

The old woman wrapped her arms close around the child, who was wearing a
hooded orange sweater she had knitted herself some years before. It might
still be a bit too large for this baby boy and it certainly was one of those
perennial hand-me-downs, but the orange sweater was really warm and it had
stood up to a lot of wear and tear. Then she remembered to look for the bird
again. But he wasn`t on the roof any more. He was in the air now, on a
spiralling course up to the thin, high clouds.

(to be continued soon)

09/29/2018