An English In Kentucky


















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 like.

     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.

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