An English In Kentucky



















July 4th 2009


    Nothing from the Summer Tanager on this day of celebration.  He is red on the dying sycamore, but his song no longer declares that post structuralist attitude my nerves have  so often had trouble with.  Perhaps his children have said something derogatory about his song and he is sulking.

    Three idle male turkey, tripping their way toward the gulley, made a spectacle of themselves before spotting me.  They don't take to their wings, with the effort that involves, these warm days.  Instead they flounced like hung-over bridegrooms into the longer grass.     


    And there is something strange in the gravel this side of the barn.  A dusty indent, where I hope when no one is looking quail bathe.  They like to get their feathers into the dust, and with all this rain the dust is not yet in the bonier parts of grass land.

    Tree swallows have fledged.  Their homes now occupied by Bluebird.  Thrashers amongst the blackberry.  A Mockingbird with the repertoire of a Blue Jay, gives cause for alarm, because Blue Jays take nestlings.

    And were I a betting man I would say the Fox Squirrel has a chaotic family somewhere near that tree I had for so long stubbornly insisted was a poison Buckeye until, thank goodness, a wiser mind assured the wife it was Hickory.

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(Buckeye)   (Hickory