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October 8th 2010    Tim Candler

    No rain into the future.  Highs in the eighties.  Cool nights, and one aberrant frost.  Blue sky without protective haze or humidity.  It is the sort of weather red blotchy people should avoid, but often can't.  So they go outside where sneezing knocks the hat off and where noses are hard to blow while wearing gloves.

    I could stay inside and watch the Close Mockingbird.   He has taken to staring at his reflection in windows.   Astonishingly vain of him, yet only to be expected from one so young.   Probably he worries about the avian equivalent to zits, doesn't like the fall of a particular feather, practices ferocity.   And meanwhile there are Blue jays everywhere,  Field Sparrows popping in and out of every shrub in a most un-endangered manner, and twelve Quail pottering around as though they owned the mortgage.

     Thank god my old friend isn't around to see this sort of October anarchy.   Wherever it is he might be now the best I can hope for him is oblivion in those bar rooms where birds go when this world is through with them.   He would be shocked to know what has become of his kingdom, he would stare at me, and I would mumble.

     Yet in a peculiar way I can understand why so many imagine a perfection in moments that follow death.   That future I guess is memory.

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