An English In Kentucky


















June 8th  2011    Tim Candler

    Five Barn Swallows fledged yesterday morning.  They flew around in the eaves of the barn, or at least four of them did.  The littlest one clung like a limpet to his perch above the tractor and would not be moved by the fluttering or by the calls of others. 

   When parents returned there was showing off and noise enough to fill a cathedral, but the littlest one remained unmoved.   He preferred instead to examine his feathers and make the necessary adjustments to those that lined his breast.  Flying, he had decided, made no sense whatsoever.  He was going to wait for his feet to grow and until they did pressure from both adults and peers would effect him not in the least.

     I could hear his Father say "there's always one."  And there was a tear in mother's eye.  But I saw the magnificence of his stubbornness and I admired his determination and I thanked god he belonged to someone else.

    Then, because of those chores I feel  dutiful toward, I continued in my search for a hammer that has been missing now for several days.  I am fairly certain that at night some horrible little boy comes up from the woods and hides things from me.

    But in the afternoon I was there to see the  littlest Barn Swallow all by himself.  He tossed his head at me before he was gone and I reckon there is trouble in store for him.

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