An English In Kentucky


















Sunday January 29th 2012    Tim Candler

     A person who gets past January without lapsing, has his name penciled onto that heavenly tablet Angels call "The Maybe's".  Most years, by this time my name has already been engraved upon that tablet Angels call "The Very Unlikely".  And there are only two days  left, so this is not the time for me to take pot shots at the Bloody Merlin whose morning routine has become so regular I could "all things bright and beautiful" him at around seven forty five in the morning. 

       He comes in from the South, low over the field, and I can see him in the Maple tree staring around, looking mean and suave like one of those beings who has managerial potential and drives a Mercedes or a Cadillac, because anything else is common.  But my guys are pretty smart, except for the Blue Jays, who see their chance to make some sort of pointless statement, which I have to admire because I have been there too. Then he's  low into the trees north of here, where he pauses a while, just in case.  It doesn't fool anyone. Then the bastard is off, over the horizon and we all come out to play, or make a  fuss about who owns which Privet.

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