This morning as I got the paper I heard a new birdcall, a quiet ‘hoo.’ It was coming from very nearby and after a bit of jockeying I was able to see the source. I was surprised to note that the bird appeared to be a smaller-than-I-usually-note Steller’s Jay. I was more surprised by the uncharacteristically melodious call, however. The bird was reluctant to flee my efforts to see it better, and this led me to surmise that she was in fact Mrs. Jay, my porchside companion of late.
Ascending the stairs to my deck, I noted that the nest was empty of brood-covering jay. On a doubletake prompted by a flash of movement, I saw a tiny, bright yellow beak reach tremulously up from within the nest, blindly agape. Moments later, the smaller jay I’d harassed in monkey curiosity hopped atop the tiny maw.
Around the corner, a senior citizen graciously greeted me as I gingerly walked down her drive to peruse the goods on offer at her garage sale. She is a painter, and one in particular, of a Duvall valley road, barns in the distance overmastered by alpine hills, was quite good, if a bit pastel for my own taste. She introduced herself with the words “I’m K_. We’re H_ people.”
The construction is the same as if I introduced myself and my family with the phrase “I’m Mike. We’re Whybark people.”
It was charmingly anachronistic. I gather the garage sale is a transition marker, given the house’s real estate notice and signboard.