eventide

Driving up the avenue to the old chateau after a day in Dublin.
Evening sunlight dappling the windscreen.
I pull up at the front door and get out of my car.
The lawn glimmers emerald.
I hear a flurry from above.
The jackdaws have emerged from the chimney. They are cawing a greeting.
"How ya Jack," I answer. "Howya Mrs Jack."
There comes a different shriller cawing from the top of the Dad's rampart hedge.
I see the old crow and her son looking down on me.
The son follows her around the garden.
He has tufts of brown in his feathers.
She's kind to him.
Occasionally she'll turn and put a morsel in his mouth.
"Hey there Mrs Crow," I call. "You've got a mighty fine son there. You must be very proud."
The housemartens swoop by and disappear around the gable.
"Long live Jesus Christ the king," I yell to them.
I'm not letting on to the Dad that the martens are building a nest on our gable.
Just as I'm not letting on to him about Jack living in the chimney.
He'll find out soon enough.
No rush.
But here I am enjoying the crows and jackdaws as though they were the most exotic birds of paradise.
Truly one the marks of God is the abundance of his generosity.
The abundance of his grace in the creation.
If you take even the smallest step towards him, you will see things as you have never seen them before.
Before I go into the house, the swallow alights on my car aeriel.
This now feels so assuredly like a personal blessing from God, that for a moment I am almost swept away by a feeling of profoundest peace.
I go into the house.
Paddy Pup meets me in the hall.
He is swilling a brandy and wearing a smoking jacket.
"Were you talking to the crows?" he demands.
"I was," sez I. "And to the jackdaws. And to the housemartens. And I would have talked to the swallow only I couldn't think of anything to say."
"Why don't you just shoot me?" said Paddy Pup.