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
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.