An English In Kentucky


















Tuesday September 13th 2011    Tim Candler

    Very concerned for the Cedar Mockingbird.  He is having trouble with his molt. Could be a deficiency of diet, something in the water, a bad case of mite. Or it could be stubbornness on his part, which isn't beyond the bounds, given the history of Close Mockingbirds here where I live.

    A person has to wonder what it might be like to have feathers.  We grow hair, finger and toe nails, and red or purple blotches.  Our skin as I understand it is constantly shedding, which always strikes me as slightly revolting, but when the summer is almost through we do not have to hang around waiting for a molt to see its course.

     For the Cedar Mockingbird it has been almost a month since first he began to appear disheveled and wretched.  Nor can I believe he sees imitation as a form of flattery, even though I too have this past month given way to slovenliness and grime. But in the tapestry there is always a chance, so perhaps if I dressed better myself.  Wore the pink tie, sang arias, set an example.

    More likely it's a deviousness.  A plot to scatter his three children without having to come to blows.  "I am sick," he's saying.  "I am infectious," he's saying.  "Save Yourselves, while you can!"

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