I stepped out on the porch at just about the same time the sun was pondering its own appearance over the eastern peaks. It was early fall; probably one of the last days that, by virtue of the moderate temperature and the absence of southern Idaho’s infamous and relentless wind, could be classified as summerlike. The horses in the pasture behind the house took notice of my arrival into their realm and meandered up to the gate in hopes that I was headed their way with a bucket of grain. Penny, the inquisitive little 3-year-old filly, nickered softly with an impatient greeting.
I’m famously unobservant, so I probably surprised even the sunrise itself when I sat on the top step to pull my boots on and marveled at the subtle yet grand spectacle that was unfolding right before my hazy, not-quite-fully-awake eyes. Second by second, the wide valley to the west became magically illuminated, and the chill of the morning air melted and drifted away like an ice cube in a bowl of steaming homemade tomato soup.
“I wonder if this happens every day?” I quizzed my ever-lovable and scruffy Idaho shag dog, Hercules, as he gently but persistently forced his nose under my arm so he could feel just a little bit of the affection he constantly craved. I noticed that despite the rough look of his shaggy coat, the old boy’s hair was actually pretty soft, and as long as he didn’t try to lick my face, I was content to just sit a spell with him there on the porch.
I heard some rustling in the row of cottonwood trees that line the fence in front of my house. I glanced up as the loud, joyful chirping of a cheerful, red-breasted robin cracked through the silence of the morning. It was kind of late in the year for a robin to still be hanging around, but there he was, in all his exuberant, confident glory. I watched as he hopped from the lower branches of the tree and onto the top strand of the sagging barbed wire fence that surrounds my humble residence. He spread his wings, pushed off with his legs and gracefully glided to the middle of the lawn. When he landed, he stopped and cocked his head, stood there, frozen in his own silent world for several seconds, and hopped forward and to his right. As I watched, he repeated the same routine three or four times, hopping from one spot to another, not in some random fashion, but in a deliberate way, as if he had a plan.
The more I watched, the more intrigued I became. The little soldier was on a mission. After about a minute of his erratic yet somehow meticulously orchestrated dance, the surprisingly graceful and elegant little avian stopped, cocked his head one more time and, with astonishing speed, made a quick diving motion toward the ground, his beak penetrating through the sod and into the dark, moist topsoil below. He braced himself, shook his head slightly, almost imperceptibly, and reared back with all his might. As he did so, his prize reluctantly snapped free of the ground's gentle grip. The gigantic worm the robin held in his beak popped out of its earthen sanctuary and nearly wrapped around the bird’s head from the force of the extraction. Mr. Robin secured a better grip on his meal, took a couple of hops and flew up into a big cottonwood tree, presumably to enjoy his breakfast in solitude because it was well past the season when most robins were hanging around southern Idaho. I reckoned he was probably on his way to somewhere south, where the impending winter would better suit him. As to why he seemed to be flying solo, I couldn’t say.
My impromptu ad hoc meeting with the sun, the dog, the trees, the horses and the bird on that uniquely insightful morning set a nice, yet unfamiliar tone to my day. How many hundreds of robins have I seen on summer mornings? How many times have I reached down to nonchalantly pat my dog’s head? How often have I heard the leaves rustle in the breeze or ignored the dozen horses as they trot along the fence as I walk by? I see lots of things, but it’s a rare occasion that I really watch. There is always sound, but I don’t always listen.
And of the 22,000 (give or take) sunrises and sunsets that have happened in my lifetime, the times I’ve stopped to appreciate the glorious certainty of each may just number in the 30s. There’s a lot that can be taught and a lot to be gained with every revolution of this magnificent blue orb we call home. So tomorrow, take a look and a listen. I’ll check back with you later for a report.
