Painterly Night

Moon and clouds collaborated on a series of splendid sky paintings last night, until the moon went off to do seascapes and the clouds brooded in darkness for a while. Then pale light crested the mountains and the clouds shone a dim blue, floating on a deeper blue. I enjoy those moments when the forest emerges from darkness, the shapes of trees growing distinct, their details gradually becoming clear, and all the land wrapped in quiet, waiting for the birds to wake. If I didn't stay up late, I'd like to rise early, merely to see that transformation.

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When I was 19, I heard Peter Bergman, best known as a member of the Firesign Theater comedy group, conduct a radio interview of Peter Ustinov. It was on KPFK, a non-commercial station in Los Angeles, and the uninterrupted program was almost two hours long. I can say that there were very few people who could have held my attention for so long in those days. I listened to every minute of it with unflagging interest. Ustinov told story after story about people famous and obscure, and events in which he had participated, and a few entertaining lies as well, I would imagine. Until that time I had known him only as an actor forever stuck in supporting roles and as the narrator of that famous recording of Peter and the Wolf. I never thought of him in that way again. The man was a true spellbinder, and I would gladly have listened to him talk for hours on end, every night. As much as I have enjoyed his movie and television roles, I will always remember him as one of the great raconteurs of the twentieth century.

Sir Peter Ustinov
1921-2004

Out Like a Lamb, as Expected

In fact, March came in like a lamb this year, and has been fairly lamby throughout. The early arrival of spring robbed the month of its accustomed variety. Now April must strive to entertain me when March has already done all of April's best material.

The neighbor's dogwood tree has reached its state of spring perfection. My window gives me an excellent view of the deep pink blossoms arrayed in graceful clusters which are not so dense as to conceal the tree's intricate network of delicate branches. While afternoon sun shines through the blossoms, they glow brightly. Once the tree falls into the shade of the tall ponderosas to its west, the color darkens and grows more intense. The larger trees beyond the dogwood provide a backdrop of a dozen shades of green which also shift from shade to shade as shafts of sunlight play across them. This is one of the most enjoyable sights spring affords, but it lasts only a few days.

This final day of March has been placid, mild and uneventful. The camellias are almost gone, and the wilting heads of the few still clinging to the bush sag earthward. The caterpillar-like flowers which bear the pollen of the mulberry tree are also now fallen, replaced by the new leaves. The walk is paved in their drying remains and those of the camellias. They no longer have the power to make me sneeze, but I enjoy treading on their corpses nonetheless. They are very soft underfoot.

The acorn woodpeckers appear to have separated into mating pairs. I only ever see them two at a time now. I have no idea where they are nesting, but they often visit the utility pole at the corner of the yard and peck away for a few minutes, occasionally emitting their chuckling call. Still, the day begins and ends with crows. I'm not sure if it's only my imagination, but they seem much shinier this year, their sleek black feathers glistening with morning and evening light. What they get up to at midday, I have no idea. I woke for a while late this morning, and listened to the songs of the other birds for a few minutes, but heard no crows among them. I imagine them lurking in the deep woods at that time, shadows flitting through shadows, like something in a dream I might have had but don't remember.