The Close Mockingbird wakes at
dawn. He sees the first glow of cold morning and he becomes a
Wren. From my bed I can hear him outside the window, chipping away
with that song of his that won him territory. And to think I was
happy for him once.
It is a tuneless and
insistent sound that cuts the air with discordance. No doubt in my
mind why he dominated those of his kind who would steal this place away
from him. But now that the Dark Eyed Juncos are here, I wonder how
much longer the Close Mockingbird will maintain his need for
Outside when I first sniff the air, he
reminds me of his many victories by rustling the few remaining leaves on the
Cherry Tree and I find it difficult to call him gallant until my own sinews
are adequately oiled by the sins of nicotine and coffee.
It is his enthusiasm I suppose that
finally redeems in me an appreciation. Puts me in mind to see if his
children might learn this call of the Close Mockingbird. Persuades me
to think in terms of living longer. Fills me with the existentialist
germ that makes doctors wealthy.
Or I could enter negotiations with indoor
comrades. But perhaps politer to relocate my own sleeping
arrangements, sleep like a bear, and wake refreshed, than to suggest to the
Grey Cat he has work to do.