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.