Gentle associates,
In Stockholm, Sweden, there is a musem that displays the mighty warship Vasa, flagship of the 17th century Swedish navy. The towering juggernaut fills four stories of open space from bottom of keel to top of aftcastle. For every gun on each of her two entire decks devoted to cannon, a unique, scowling lion is emblazoned on the port-hole cover. She is coated with sculptures of ancient heroes, and was once fully and resplendently painted so every cur who glanced her way would know: this is the Vasa. In the presence of the dull brown ruin of this ship, the beast's skeleton hanging stationary and cold, it is easy to feel the terrible power she once must have possessed. She would never, in all her years of existence, feel a single steel bite of enemy shot. No ship she engaged would ever escape. On her maiden voyage, not two kilometers from her berth, the Vasa listed heavily to port, took on water through her lower deck of cannon, and sank.
In Stockholm, Sweden, someone has given meticulous and earnest thought to the sounds the city makes. Without equivalent care in observation, a gawking visitor might stumble from museum to museum, reveling in the austerity of the castles or the quaint beauty of the tight, brick streets of the old city, and never recognize the muffled calm of the surroundings. A reversing truck hisses a gentle warning like a suddenly-overgrown cricket who, surprised by his newfound bulk, tests his song softly. Pedestrian crossing signals issue a dull, steady thump to grant passage to the waiting throng. The chorus of distant, metallic woodpeckers fades from ken a few quick steps from the street. Amongst such a city the cries of the birds are an unnatural and unwelcome guest, each shrill salvo piercing fresh wounds in the peaceful membrane that coats the streets.
It was one of these birds, with a trim white body and striking black head, who lit on the bench beside me. Sleek, seagull-sized, completely unfamiliar. She tilted her head to the side and blinked her eyes. Like a bird does: swiftly, purposefully. Each motion the culmination of a long deliberation; the time spent on decision, not the movement itself. I had no food, no crumbs to offer, having finished my lunch an hour earlier and in an altogether different location. I spent a minute staring at the bird, who blinked periodically, before deciding to move on. I prepared to stand up. But as I did, the bird threw open its beak and spread its wings, tottering left and right with small, unsteady steps. Silently, without blurting any squawking protest. The silence was startling. A firm warning, but without more effort than necessary. I was intrigued, and relaxed again. The beak closed, the wings folded softly into the bird's downy torso, and the meaningful stare resumed as before. Smiling, I feigned departure another three or four times. With the patience of a teacher charged with an unruly student, the bird repeated her reprimand. 'Alright,' I said aloud, 'you win. Now what?'
The park where I sat looked out over the water. There were few other people around. It was the middle of the week. And not particularly warm outside. I had bundled up, so the cold did not bother me, but Stockholm is large and my time there was short. I was curious about my avian companion, but didn't want to spend my day waiting for what, after all, was a bird to do what, after all, couldn't be much. So, after another minute, I stood despite the silent protest, and began to walk away. After what couldn't have been more than ten steps, a single note, a bird's call, rang out from behind me. Not a raspy growl, but not cloying either. There was no urgency, no fear. Calm, steady, resonant, a genuine statement performed with the same efficiency that all the bird's actions contained. Genuine, and clear. I was not to leave.
And yet, wary of empty promises, having already spent a good deal of time in the bird's company, I took another hesitant step.
The last has not been heard,
walter