The roof over the street with protruding windows is a great marsh toad. The red tiles are its sleeping head, the windows, bulging eyes. See how it blinks the frost free from one, and rises on misty days with glistening skin. It sings in spring, a deep chirruuup that gives the buds of linden their unfold.
It’s peopled with crows sometimes and knows their ways. (A knowledge shared for vantage.)
Will the old toad move? Uproot and pass from its moist patch to roam the roads? That would perturb its hominins, who make a fastness in its mouth and count on it remaining. But why? No toad can last beyond its years or be content at rest in all its seasons. And yet the mouth-dwellers marry moments to eternity, as is their way. For what was yesterday will be tomorrow.
The toad blinks drizzle from its eyes and waits the winter out. The crows perch on the mighty birch nearby and mark the rising arc of sun. They’ll share their seeings soon — no need to wake the ancient now. Best let it be, bedreamed in earth, and leave the happenings of sky to feathered folk.
—
Wednesday, from the communal gardens near the resting toad, I see an old couple step, hand in hand and warmly wrapped. As I pass them on my way to the shops, I can’t help but smile. They’re golden in the sun and their affection.
One street down I see another couple, just as old and arm in arm. I’m delighted. The wise and wizened know what’s worth holding(*).
It’s such a nice day that I struggle to keep my feet pointed in the right direction. They’ve a strong desire to wander off. I make it as far as the busy Kurt-Eisner before they drag me sidelong to the Friedenspark. (No small distance out of my way.) I pop in some earbuds — the traffic’s loud — and head for the once-was-graveyard.
The snow’s gone when I get there but the ice remains. The soil’s frozen solid — it’s got less give than the gravel paths.
My headphones stutter. I switch my phone’s bluetooth off and on, but that doesn’t resolve the issue. I remove the buds and place them in the case — that often works. I hear Wood Pigeons in the nearby trees, and Great Tits.
“Thank you”— I smile —“for reminding me why I’m here.”
I leave the earphones in the case.
I walk a lap of the park and come across a murder of crows. One sits on a branch, softly cawing, as the others strike the hard earth with their beaks. How frustrating to fly to your winter stash and find the pantry door stuck fast.
We watch each other a while.
“Maybe one of the Peanut People will pass by,” I offer.
I don’t think that consoles them.
My route takes me past the Rotes Haus, and there I see another old couple holding hands. Companionship seems to be the theme of the day. And the day before, I think, as I pass the 7 Shots café. I’d been sitting outside there in the sun when a beggar had come along, dishevelled in a yellow jacket and thick woollen hat. His words had been incomprehensible but he’d touched his fingers to his lips, the universal sign for hunger. I’d shared my croissant with him.
“Spasibo,” he’d said when he’d finished, touching his hand to his heart(**).
(He’d then shuffled over to a couple of guys nearby to blag a cigarette.)
“Well, feet,” I say, “it’s been fun, but the hands want to go grab some groceries.”
We all agree to head back, but take the long way.
—
(*) I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve bemoaned seeing people on the street — alone, with family, friends, a pram — with phone in hand. (The things The Mathematician must endure.)
(**) Or was it “spasýbi”? I’ve no Slavic knowledge.
