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September 18th 2010    Tim Candler

    A little dangerous to venture outside.  Pretenders to the throne of Close Mockingbird pay scant regard to other garden users.  I find myself listening from the back porch, but there is no rustle from the Alatus Bush.  So like a princess I pay little attention, even though I have once or twice had to duck my head for fear of collision with feathers, feet or beak.

    There can be no heaven or hell for us, but birds linger on into the ethereal realm.   I can see my friend on the garden gate watching the courageous, judging their form and quite obviously he is sneering in the manner of an old soldier stuck with gout and whiskey breath. 

   That's right heaven for feathered being is a bar room.  Glenfiddich is on tap.  Brains Dark beer fills a swimming pool.  Herons and Ospreys and chickens are allowed cold Budweiser. And no one has to mess with nuts or berries or fish, or things with too many legs, unless there is a yearning to peck at something.

     It is no wonder angels have always insisted upon wings. 

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