Monday September 5th 2011 Tim Candler
Cool weather and rain from the south.
Sometimes in September when it's like this a person can smell the Spice
Islands, not this time. This time it feels like something else.
It's a Merlin who has had a contract with our sky these past two weeks.
He is happy in the Dying Sycamore tree, but no one else is.
I saw him through the
binoculars. He was looking directly at me. His eyes, I thought,
without expression, like something made of stone, or glass. I
thought of things to say to him, but his replies are as preordained as
my thoughts are.
I could argue for wishfulness.
I could say 'perhaps' as many times as is conceivable. I could believe
in possibilities. But patterns are like mirrors, and when that mirror
breaks there is nothing to see, because patterns know what tomorrow looks
I would like to think that soon enough he'll
move on. I would like to think there are other places for him to go.
But what if he makes this place his sanctuary. An idea bleak enough to
reduce all possibilities to acceptance. So it's time to stop listening to
the Nashville radio. And there's a shovel been idle for months.