Alma

As soon as I let myself be seen in the garden, that means gardening in my gardening clothes: old Manchester trousers, now called stretch cord, with the faded synthetic sweater with paint spots and runs, rubber boots and with ragged hair, then she is there immediately. She is practically tame, or rather, tame on foot, because she is always lurking, hopping, sneaking and gliding around me in the immediate vicinity of my feet. I don’t even know what to describe the way they move. It’s also something between gliding and sneaking as she speeds along with her head slightly crouched, her head stretched out and her strangely quick trotting steps. Maybe I should call it sledding?

She is always barely thirty centimeters away. But I don’t have to worry about kicking them. She is a female, a hen, I guess. And as a man, I rank under the “rooster” aspect. That’s probably why there’s so much agreement.

I didn’t really notice them at first. Certainly, I always felt as if there was something there. That’s how it often happens, by the time I really noticed that she was interested in me, spring was almost over. But then a real friendship developed, unfortunately it wasn’t enough for love. We were from too different backgrounds. And yet, it was a very loving friendship.

So whenever I come into the garden in accordance with the guild and acceptable to her, it doesn’t take three minutes before she’s there. How does she notice it so quickly and where does it come from every time? I don’t know it. “Hello, here you are!” I can literally hear it, this casual greeting, even though she doesn’t make a sound. She waits first, probably a meter away from me. Their plumage is immaculately brown and black. Her slim yet strong figure stands tensely and casually. Yes, she is a beauty and shows a real interest in me.

I do not have much time. I have to get started, pull weeds, loosen the soil, dig. Now she comes up light-footed and noiselessly, tilts her pretty, regular head to the side and quickly snatches a worm. She comes right up to my hand and looks for and finds things, eggs, worms, insects and who knows what else. Things I don’t see at all. Every now and then she is gone for a short time. But I hardly notice it because her presence quickly bridges that.

But then she gets distracted. Oh yes, the competition. He, pitch black, yellow-beaked, dull-glossy feathers, a figure! And first the voice! I can’t compete with that. He is her true love and I am her fried potato relationship. But I’m quite happy with that. It is now autumn, almost winter. My clothes have changed. There is nothing to do in the garden. Will she be back next year, Alma, my pretty blackbird? I miss her a little.