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.