An English In Kentucky


















May 22nd 2011    Tim Candler

    There is uncertainty in my world.  It has become almost impossible to settle upon a strict interpretation of  Close Mockingbird and I find myself  muttering absurdities such as "Mick the Mockingbird." Which sends a sharp pain through my forehead because I am no longer three years old, nor am I a nanny. 

    The Mockingbird who has his nest closest to our own nest is the Northern Mockingbird who has moved South.  I know his sort.  Brash, confident and with teeth that flash.   He is very agile in the air and I believe he is a mature male with years of understanding behind him, and if he were a Human Being his evenings would be spent wearing cummerbund and bowtie.

     My own young friend, who spent most of his winter struggling with coughs and sneezes, has his nest closer to the barn.  While she is busy feeding the chick, he sits on the electric line.  He stares toward the north or down at me, and I know he is wondering who will own the Alatus outside my bedroom window when winter comes.

     The Vegetable Garden does however still belong to my young friend.  He is in there a great deal where he likes to peck at ripening Strawberry.  There will be Raspberry soon for him to enjoy, and his presence on a Garden fence post does provide a sense of closeness.

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