An English In Kentucky


















October 15th 2010    Tim Candler

    Scissor Tailed Flycatchers are collectors.  They are like Magpies.   As well, I understand they gather in chaotic communities before heading to Central America where they spend their winters with King Birds and Parrots, so it is no wonder they fill their nests with baubles.

     I saw one once, just outside the back door, on the electric line.   We had had a spring storm and the beautiful thing was tattered and confused, washed far from familiar places, he stared at me as though looking for better directions.  My old friend, with classic enthusiasm, chased him off, leaving me with a brief image followed by a sense of loss.

    It was May 5th 2009.  I wish I could say I recall the date with an acuity that might suggest all parts are functioning, but that would be a sad exaggeration.   May 5th has a record in my brain, but not until some weeks ago did the twenty one in May 5th 2009 become associated with the Scissor Tailed Flycatcher.

    Purpose of course, because some things commit reasonableness without an apparent authority.  Seems to make more sense that I should collect images of Flycatchers than images of straight lines.   So I dragged the past and found a memory that adds a cuteness to the pure geometry of an imperial mission that begins on the twenty first. 

    "Have you seen a Scissor Tail,"  I'll pretend to ask.  

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