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 Wednesday  October 26th 2011    Tim Candler

     Girl Mockingbirds have come to their agreements and I think they have arranged their winter affairs. Always polite, they are. None of this knocking down and dragging around.  Instead you can walk by a thicket and you can hear a Girl Mockingbird talk quietly to herself, and, if you want to, you can hear bitterness and cursing the neighborhood.  Or, if you want to, you can hear her saying those comfortable things that make the best of even Briar and Multiflora.

     Boy Mockingbirds mostly believe they are fighter pilots.  They zoom around, and for them at the moment there is no greater excitement than spotting another fighter pilot, or something that could be a fighter pilot.  And too, fresh from their molt they look fantastic, their white chevrons catch the low sun and they'll suddenly flash a wing just to make certain everyone knows  they have landed safely and are dreaming of bigger and bigger jet planes and perhaps an aircraft carrier.

 

      When it is all about winning, a Marx might have told you, one person soon owns everything.  An Ayn Rand might have told you that winners are beauty and everything follows.  Darwin might have told you that you need more than one winner, otherwise you are soon the last of your kind.  And there are even stranger ideas.

    It's an odd thing to have a problem with establishing Human Being  in other living things.  We, they'll tell you, are unlike other creatures.  A baby bird, they'll tell you, is not cute, or happy or sad. It's just a nothing that moves and one day might fly, steal Raspberry. Me I look to the Fruit Fly.  There he is emerging from a hot  microwave and straight for the Apple  And when we're all gone, we'll still be here until something finds out what winning might actually be. 

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