An English In Kentucky


















August 23rd  2011    Tim Candler

    The Cedar Mockingbird is molting.  He was high in the ornamental practicing a new song, and maybe I shouldn't have looked up at him, because with just the one tail feather a Mockingbird understands shyness and likely he feels foolish. 

    I would call it slinking, as he flew low across the cut grass to hide where young Rabbits live.  Through the day I could hear him muttering, so I called his name and tried to tell him that he was amongst friends, but he must have seen my smile because he really does look very strange.

     His new song belongs to a bird that has lodged this year down the hill a little where Blackberry rule and where a damned Fawn has a day bed.  I can hear this bird in the morning from the front porch.  Then again in the evening when Deer move through.  It is a discord of sound, as though notes are missing.  And good time has been spent creeping around trying to get close enough to put this bird into a less mysterious category.

     But some birds just do not like to be seen.  They don't sit up there wailing and flapping their wings.  They don't have the "look at me" colors.  They don't hop amongst the Tomato with a little black worm in their beak.  Instead they hide, make the odd noise, create a different sort of commotion.

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