The Perception of Perfection

The mower roared along the grass as I fought with the hose, carefully threading it along the base of the plants, their thirsty stems limp against my skin. My head pounded and my eyes hurt, my sunglasses nowhere to be found. The ground was too dry for soaker hoses and the blue skies made no promises of rain. The heat was unrelenting and the forecast cheerfully predicted another week of hot, dry weather. Oblivious to the temperature, blue jays, grackles, finches, and hummingbirds swooped around the garden, their calls filling the air. "Is that a woodpecker?' my husband asked. I paused and looked up. A male woodpecker perched on the edge of our largest tube feeder, carefully picking seed from the tray before flying over to the oak to stuff it quickly into the fledgling's mouth, the baby's dunn colored feathers blending into the bark. Back and forth, the male woodpecker flew, the fledgling waiting patiently for its meal, it's beak open and eager. I took a deep breath and slowly let it out. I was desperate for rain and worried about the water bill, still rearranging soaker hoses, and frustrated by my endless trips with a watering can to quench my gardens thirst. I wanted the temps to drop by fifteen degrees and the skies to open up and pour, filling my rain barrels and soaking the brittle soil. My garden wasn't perfect but to the wood peckers who live in my trees, it's just perfect enough, and that's okay with me.