An English In Kentucky


















March 4th 2010    Tim Candler

    Sunshine in the morning and tufts of white visible from the backdoor looked like Mockingbird breast feathers.   That Northern Harrier and that Merlin haunt me, I think.   Worth visiting the optician in the hunt for better vision because I once was useful with a twenty two.

     Of course I cursed and I stumped around in that frustrated way, and I thought of the Far Mockingbird, saw him feasting his greedy imagination on endless territory now that my friend was gone.   And I swore I would never speak to him 


    When the Barn Swallows arrive I usually see them in the air.   I think of them as Barn Swallows until they sit on the electric lines.  Then when I disturb them in the barn, they quickly become My Barn Swallows. 

    Always wrong of me to leap to conclusion.   Suspect I am prone to it.  Genetics perhaps.  Because from amongst the Alatus berries the Close Mockingbird emerged to chase Cardinals.  And the white, visible from the backdoor, was tissue paper fallen from my own pocket while battling the old man sniffle cold weather causes.

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