The trees at Berkeley's Aquatic Park are crawling with undocumented immigrants. The new arrivals recently set up crowded encampments in the foliage above the golf course, creating a nuisance for golfers. The migrants are traveling 2,000 miles from Canada to Mexico, as they do every year, despite lacking permission from the proper United States authorities to overwinter on American soil. These aliens have been seen floating over border patrol checkpoints by the millions, flouting the rule of law and making a mockery of the very notion of the nation state. At a recent press conference on the crisis, Trump promised to make every effort to deport the shiftless butterflies, who, he also noted, are lazy and do not contribute to the economy. He promised to personally subsidize a butterfly net the size of Texas to prevent more of these filthy pests from invading American soil and infesting our nation with their ecoterrorist agenda. In a show of support for Trump, the NRA promised to equip Native-born golfers with semi-automatic machine guns in order to keep the peace.
I placed a drop of liquid brown sugar on the counter. Word spread quickly, pheromone trails were forged. In no time the sisters had circled around like wildebeest at a watering hole. Each ant has two stomachs: an individual stomach for her own survival, and a social stomach for collective survival. Life is sweet.
The beauty of the world stubbornly persists. Some flowers only bloom in the dead of night.
The underbrush is giving a leafy lecture on the evolutionary advantages of radial symmetry and other mathematically efficient beauty. Classes are ongoing.
"Listen, are you breathing just a little and calling it a life?" - Mary Oliver
The humility of the buckwheat gives me pause as I stride importantly along. There are lessons blooming in the underbrush.
I couldn’t help but notice that every living thing is endowed with its fair share of grace, including you, me, and the tule reeds.
This is what California’s golden hills look like when you float by them in a kayak, drifting in the wind.
There is the heaven we enter
through institutional grace
and there are the yellow finches bathing and singing
in the lowly puddle.
- from Yellow by Mary Oliver
(This is a yellow warbler, not a finch, but the sentiment stands.)
“The humming is always there, even at rest.” - The Mincing Mockingbird
I felt these birds before I saw them, a rustle of wind and a presence over my shoulder. When I looked up, I didn't have a name for them, so I broke out into a full-body sweat, as if my every pore were calling out to them. I dubbed them the Goosebumps Birds, but later I learned that their real name is the Magnificent Frigatebirds, a worthy title for a beast whose very Is-ness can make an otherwise solid human go liquid.
Several of nature's people
I know, and they know me;
I feel for them a transport
- Emily Dickinson
A fun thing to do is to watch how spider webs turn raindrops into fireworks.
I woke up this morning intending to do Responsible Purposeful Things, but I got sidetracked and accidentally fell in love with a pine cone playing with a beam of light.