The Nest

Posted on January 12, 2009 in Creatures Weather

Now that it is winter, I can see that a sparrow or a purple finch built a nest in the purple plum tree out in front of my condo. I’ve been tempted to reach out and snatch it as a souvenir but it serves a more interesting purpose: that of a gauge of the strength of the wind.

It has been blowing since very early Friday morning. Each day the National Weather Service has told us that it will end by evening the next day and then extended that forecast to the conclusion of the weekend. We’re there now. The end of the foehn is due by six p.m. In the meantime, it gets its last licks, shaking cars and windows, asthmatically whistling beyond the walls as if it were really hiding in a corner set to thrill and terrify.

Against the maleficent gusts — the [[Santa_Ana_winds|Santa Anas]] or satanas ((Raymond Chandler wrote of these: Those hot dry winds that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands’ necks. Anything can happen.)) as they were originally called — the nest has held on, supported by three sticks pointing nearly straight into the air. That bowl of grass and twigs has become my hero, resisting that which overwhelms my moods. Tomorrow, if it is still there, I shall salute it and leave it for its maker or maybe a descendant to reuse it.

Picture of the nest