Waiting

Yesterday, vultures were circling near, casting their ominous shadows as they passed. I noticed three of them perched on a fence and walked over to see if I could figure out the attraction, assuming they weren’t simply waiting for us to drop. Sure enough, lying in the grass were the remains of a tiny brown-fur creature, seemingly far too small and insignificant to justify all the excitement. Bits of entrails were exposed, pearly blue and red, and a tattered thin tail, and I surmised it was a squirrel or chipmunk. I returned a few hours later, and it was gone without a trace. Very efficient work.

Meanwhile, the wind has been howling. It’s a fact of life in these parts. As the joke says, “Our wind corridor is second to none.” But sometimes it gets to me. It adds an edge to an already anxious time. Walks become ordeals. I return exhausted and collapse into the welcoming embrace of the couch, very glad I don’t have a job but wondering what to do next.

I never realized how much of my life I build around planning what comes next, and I didn’t know until now how much my calendar revolves around travel. At this point I would be preparing, even to the point of pre-packing, for our biannual trip to England. I didn’t realize, either, how even my little forays into town were often about getting ready for these bigger expeditions: buying frivolous gifts, discovering a pretty scarf or blouse in the consignment shop, gathering adornments and supplies for the journey. Now I plan what we will have for dinner.

And I’m waiting for something, but I don’t know what. For some kind of resolution? An ending? A beginning? Whatever it is, it feels ominous. The lack of a timeline is unsettling. Time had long ago blurred into indistinct modules but they at least lined up in seasons. Now the only unit is the present.

Outside, nothing is still. The grass is rolling like the sea, and all the leaves are quivering. The quail, in a bluster as usual, are looking particularly chubby, plump pecking partridges, apparently finding plenty. The gang of six turkeys has disappeared. The cattle have been moved elsewhere. A pomegranate tree has surprised us with a burst of red blooms, tiny branches of flamenco dancers, moving in anticipation. Anticipation of what?

The vultures are gone, but I suppose they’ll be back.