"The Golden One" (Text & Image Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
"May we always leave room in the gardens of our lives
for unexpected birdsong." ~Anon
The rain had arrived sometime before dawn—not a storm, not a wild spring tempest, but one of those soft northern rains that seemed less like weather and more like memory returning to the earth.
By six-thirty the windows of the Bean & Birch glowed amber against the gray-blue hush of morning. Inside, the scent of dark roast coffee mingled with cinnamon scones warming in the oven while Patricia Barber drifted low and smoky through the speakers. Beyond the fogged glass, Stillwater Gleam rested beneath a veil of mist so delicate it looked painted there by hand.
Maren stood behind the counter polishing mugs while Lucy arranged fresh-cut lilacs into an old blue crock near the register.
“It’s an oriole kind of morning,” Lucy murmured.
Maren looked up. “What exactly does that mean?”
Lucy smiled faintly. “You’ll know when you see one.”
At their usual table near the front windows sat the coffee gang. Erica had arrived wrapped in a yellow raincoat still glittering with droplets. Toby was halfway through a caramel roll. Martha sat with both hands curled around her mug as though it were something sacred. Sam, smelling faintly of cedar shavings from the workshop, leaned back in his chair watching the rain stripe the glass.
“You know what today needs?” Toby announced.
“No,” Erica replied cautiously. “But I suspect we’re about to find out.”
“A road trip.”
Martha blinked. “In the rain?”
“Especially in the rain.”
“That,” Sam said dryly, “sounds like the beginning of a true crime documentary.”
Before Toby could defend himself, the front door swung open with a gust of damp spring air.
Ethan stepped inside carrying Isabel the orange-and-white tabby bundled against his chest in her canvas sling. Bear followed behind, massive paws leaving wet prints across the old wooden floor while Ragnhilde the raven perched on Ethan’s shoulder like a dark, feathered queen.
“You’re late,” Erica said.
“I had visitors.”
Maren poured coffee into his waiting mug. “Human visitors?”
Ethan shook his head slowly, a smile touching his beard.
“Orioles.”
That got everyone’s attention.
“You finally got them?” Lucy asked.
Ethan nodded. “At the birdbath.”
Now even Martha leaned forward.
For nearly a week the entire town—or at least the small orbit of people connected to Bean & Birch—had heard about Ethan hauling an impossibly heavy concrete birdbath into the garden beside the wee cottage in the woods. There had been endless teasing about whether any bird north of Minneapolis would actually use it.
“Oh, they used it all right,” Ethan said quietly.
Outside, the rain softened to a silver mist.
“They came out of nowhere. One minute the garden was empty. Then suddenly…” He paused, searching for the words. “It was like a piece of sunset fell out of the trees.”
No one spoke.
“They splashed like they owned the world,” he continued. “Bright as flame against the water. One of them perched there afterward—completely soaked—singing like he was announcing spring itself.”
Martha smiled into her coffee.
“My mother used to say orioles carried sunlight in their feathers.”
“And good luck,” Lucy added softly.
Toby grinned. “See? We should go on a road trip. Chase orioles across Wisconsin.”
“You’d get lost in Cumberland,” Erica replied.
“I resent that.”
“You got lost in the Bean & Birch bathroom once.”
“That hallway is confusing.”
Laughter rolled through the café warm as firelight.
Then, suddenly, Ragnhilde gave a sharp croak from Ethan’s shoulder and tilted her head toward the window.
There, beyond the rain-speckled glass and the drifting mist of Stillwater Gleam, a brilliant streak of orange flashed across the gray morning.
The oriole landed briefly in the flowering crabapple beside the café.
For one suspended heartbeat the entire world seemed to stop.
Even Toby fell silent.
The bird shook rainwater from its wings, revealing impossible colors against the wet spring morning—molten orange, velvet black, bright fragments of living flame.
Then it sang.
A clear bubbling flute-note drifted through the rain-soft air.
And just as suddenly, it vanished back into the emerald hush beyond the lake.
No one moved for several seconds.
Finally Martha whispered, “Well…”
“Well what?” Erica asked softly.
Martha smiled toward the window.
“Lucy was right. It is an oriole kind of morning.”
* * * * * * * * * *
This morning the rain falls softly outside the wee cottage in the woods. The world feels hushed, washed clean somehow. Classical music drifts quietly through the rooms while the aroma of fresh coffee rises like a small blessing into the dawn.
And I find myself thinking about orioles.
A few days ago I wrestled a concrete birdbath into one of the gardens. Good heavens, that thing was heavy. Once it was finally settled into place, I filled it with cool water and waited.
Nothing happened.
A day passed. Then another.
Part of me wondered if perhaps the birds preferred puddles and ponds and wild places over my hopeful offering.
But then yesterday morning I glanced out the window and there he was.
A Baltimore oriole.
Bright as flame.
Impossible to miss.
He splashed and danced and scattered silver droplets into the morning sunlight as though celebrating the simple joy of being alive. For a few moments, the garden became something magical—a tiny cathedral of water, color, and song.
And I realized how often life works this way.
We prepare the garden.
We carry the heavy things.
We build the birdbath.
We create spaces of kindness, hope, beauty, and welcome without always knowing if anything will come of them.
And then one day—often when we least expect it—a flash of golden grace arrives.
The oriole reminds us that brilliance takes time. Male orioles do not reveal their full fiery colors immediately; it takes seasons before their true radiance emerges. Perhaps we are the same. Perhaps the soul unfolds slowly, learning courage and compassion year by year until one day it suddenly realizes it has become luminous.
The female oriole, meanwhile, weaves her hanging nest from grass, vine, and fiber into a cradle that sways in storms yet rarely breaks. There is wisdom there too. Resilience is not rigid. The strongest spirits are often those that learn how to bend with the winds of life without surrendering their song.
And then there is the music itself.
Orioles often sing hidden high in leafy canopies where they are heard long before they are seen. What a lovely reminder for all of us: some of the greatest treasures in life are not always visible. Sometimes they arrive as a quiet kindness. A friendship. A gentle word. A moment of unexpected peace on a rainy morning.
The ancient roots of the word oriole mean “the golden one.”
Perhaps that is what we are all searching for in our own ways—not riches or perfection, but those golden moments that remind us life is still filled with wonder.
A cup of coffee.
Rain against the windows.
Music drifting softly through a room.
A bird singing from the trees.
Friends gathered around a table laughing together.
Tiny miracles.
And perhaps the true art of living is simply this:
To notice them.
To welcome them.
To let them splash joy into the quiet birdbath of the heart.
And so this day starts.
~Wylddane
for unexpected birdsong." ~Anon
The rain had arrived sometime before dawn—not a storm, not a wild spring tempest, but one of those soft northern rains that seemed less like weather and more like memory returning to the earth.
By six-thirty the windows of the Bean & Birch glowed amber against the gray-blue hush of morning. Inside, the scent of dark roast coffee mingled with cinnamon scones warming in the oven while Patricia Barber drifted low and smoky through the speakers. Beyond the fogged glass, Stillwater Gleam rested beneath a veil of mist so delicate it looked painted there by hand.
Maren stood behind the counter polishing mugs while Lucy arranged fresh-cut lilacs into an old blue crock near the register.
“It’s an oriole kind of morning,” Lucy murmured.
Maren looked up. “What exactly does that mean?”
Lucy smiled faintly. “You’ll know when you see one.”
At their usual table near the front windows sat the coffee gang. Erica had arrived wrapped in a yellow raincoat still glittering with droplets. Toby was halfway through a caramel roll. Martha sat with both hands curled around her mug as though it were something sacred. Sam, smelling faintly of cedar shavings from the workshop, leaned back in his chair watching the rain stripe the glass.
“You know what today needs?” Toby announced.
“No,” Erica replied cautiously. “But I suspect we’re about to find out.”
“A road trip.”
Martha blinked. “In the rain?”
“Especially in the rain.”
“That,” Sam said dryly, “sounds like the beginning of a true crime documentary.”
Before Toby could defend himself, the front door swung open with a gust of damp spring air.
Ethan stepped inside carrying Isabel the orange-and-white tabby bundled against his chest in her canvas sling. Bear followed behind, massive paws leaving wet prints across the old wooden floor while Ragnhilde the raven perched on Ethan’s shoulder like a dark, feathered queen.
“You’re late,” Erica said.
“I had visitors.”
Maren poured coffee into his waiting mug. “Human visitors?”
Ethan shook his head slowly, a smile touching his beard.
“Orioles.”
That got everyone’s attention.
“You finally got them?” Lucy asked.
Ethan nodded. “At the birdbath.”
Now even Martha leaned forward.
For nearly a week the entire town—or at least the small orbit of people connected to Bean & Birch—had heard about Ethan hauling an impossibly heavy concrete birdbath into the garden beside the wee cottage in the woods. There had been endless teasing about whether any bird north of Minneapolis would actually use it.
“Oh, they used it all right,” Ethan said quietly.
Outside, the rain softened to a silver mist.
“They came out of nowhere. One minute the garden was empty. Then suddenly…” He paused, searching for the words. “It was like a piece of sunset fell out of the trees.”
No one spoke.
“They splashed like they owned the world,” he continued. “Bright as flame against the water. One of them perched there afterward—completely soaked—singing like he was announcing spring itself.”
Martha smiled into her coffee.
“My mother used to say orioles carried sunlight in their feathers.”
“And good luck,” Lucy added softly.
Toby grinned. “See? We should go on a road trip. Chase orioles across Wisconsin.”
“You’d get lost in Cumberland,” Erica replied.
“I resent that.”
“You got lost in the Bean & Birch bathroom once.”
“That hallway is confusing.”
Laughter rolled through the café warm as firelight.
Then, suddenly, Ragnhilde gave a sharp croak from Ethan’s shoulder and tilted her head toward the window.
There, beyond the rain-speckled glass and the drifting mist of Stillwater Gleam, a brilliant streak of orange flashed across the gray morning.
The oriole landed briefly in the flowering crabapple beside the café.
For one suspended heartbeat the entire world seemed to stop.
Even Toby fell silent.
The bird shook rainwater from its wings, revealing impossible colors against the wet spring morning—molten orange, velvet black, bright fragments of living flame.
Then it sang.
A clear bubbling flute-note drifted through the rain-soft air.
And just as suddenly, it vanished back into the emerald hush beyond the lake.
No one moved for several seconds.
Finally Martha whispered, “Well…”
“Well what?” Erica asked softly.
Martha smiled toward the window.
“Lucy was right. It is an oriole kind of morning.”
* * * * * * * * * *
This morning the rain falls softly outside the wee cottage in the woods. The world feels hushed, washed clean somehow. Classical music drifts quietly through the rooms while the aroma of fresh coffee rises like a small blessing into the dawn.
And I find myself thinking about orioles.
A few days ago I wrestled a concrete birdbath into one of the gardens. Good heavens, that thing was heavy. Once it was finally settled into place, I filled it with cool water and waited.
Nothing happened.
A day passed. Then another.
Part of me wondered if perhaps the birds preferred puddles and ponds and wild places over my hopeful offering.
But then yesterday morning I glanced out the window and there he was.
A Baltimore oriole.
Bright as flame.
Impossible to miss.
He splashed and danced and scattered silver droplets into the morning sunlight as though celebrating the simple joy of being alive. For a few moments, the garden became something magical—a tiny cathedral of water, color, and song.
And I realized how often life works this way.
We prepare the garden.
We carry the heavy things.
We build the birdbath.
We create spaces of kindness, hope, beauty, and welcome without always knowing if anything will come of them.
And then one day—often when we least expect it—a flash of golden grace arrives.
The oriole reminds us that brilliance takes time. Male orioles do not reveal their full fiery colors immediately; it takes seasons before their true radiance emerges. Perhaps we are the same. Perhaps the soul unfolds slowly, learning courage and compassion year by year until one day it suddenly realizes it has become luminous.
The female oriole, meanwhile, weaves her hanging nest from grass, vine, and fiber into a cradle that sways in storms yet rarely breaks. There is wisdom there too. Resilience is not rigid. The strongest spirits are often those that learn how to bend with the winds of life without surrendering their song.
And then there is the music itself.
Orioles often sing hidden high in leafy canopies where they are heard long before they are seen. What a lovely reminder for all of us: some of the greatest treasures in life are not always visible. Sometimes they arrive as a quiet kindness. A friendship. A gentle word. A moment of unexpected peace on a rainy morning.
The ancient roots of the word oriole mean “the golden one.”
Perhaps that is what we are all searching for in our own ways—not riches or perfection, but those golden moments that remind us life is still filled with wonder.
A cup of coffee.
Rain against the windows.
Music drifting softly through a room.
A bird singing from the trees.
Friends gathered around a table laughing together.
Tiny miracles.
And perhaps the true art of living is simply this:
To notice them.
To welcome them.
To let them splash joy into the quiet birdbath of the heart.
And so this day starts.
~Wylddane
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