The Finch, Twice

Years ago on a cold morning, I woke up cursing my broken furnace while getting ready for work. Cold house, cold room, cold water, cold. I put on a set of thermals and it didn't help. It was in my bones, the cold, like I had smoked it the night before. I got ready, cursing. I made sure to start my car several minutes before leaving, but when I got in the car to leave the heater was still cold. It was an old car. Probably I should've known better and started it sooner. I started on my way to work, still cursing. It seemed like I was the only person out, like I was the only person dense enough to go to work on a day like this.

At a stop sign I looked down and to my right. A little finch was bathing In a puddle which was deep enough to still be liquid, but frozen around the edges. The damn thing was soaking itself like spa-time at a tropical resort. Tiny, little stupid bird. I realized that day, I was a pansy. To my surprise, I stopped complaining. The rest of my commute I listened to Radiohead, which was the only thing that seemed fitting. It may or may not have helped.

A few years later I was atop a mountain in the backcountry of the Smoky Mountains. I spent the whole day climbing waist-high boulders on the way up, and ran out of daylight (and energy) at the top. I opted to spend the night in my sleeping bag against a giant rock who, graciously, was willing to cut the mountain wind for me. I knew it was going to be cold, really cold. I made a crackling fire with a few sticks I found and read some R. L. Stevenson. I've always had a soft spot for the Highlands of Scotland. Perhaps he created that soft spot. I struck up a pipe with some cherry Borkum Riff, mostly to keep my hands warm. I roasted some almonds with a few pine needles to add flavor. The stars were so dense they looked like coconut oil just before melting. I could hear the occasional sound of coyotes howling. Otherwise, the quiet was ear-piercing and blissful. My bones were tired. I slept well, except for waking a few times from the cold and adding sticks to the fire. I awoke a final time with the sunrise. It was red and blue. Not purple, but blue, like the pacific, and it was slowly turning gold. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such pure blue at the sun’s waking.

I laid there watching it for a moment, and when the landscape around me became green again I started to get up. I noticed my saliva was frozen on my bag, which I had been using as a pillow. Just as I made some zipper noise with my sleeping bag, I spooked two mule deer. I watched them spring up and run off. A huge grin fell over my face. I inhaled the crisp, cool air long and slow, like medicine, or bourbon (not that the two are mutually exclusive). Then a finch landed on top of the windbreaker rock and danced back and forth for a few seconds before flying off.

As I began climbing down the mountain checklisting in my head whether I had packed up everything, I thought about the finch on the rock and then the finch in the puddle, somehow, and I got mad at myself for not telling the bastard on the rock that he didn't win this time.