An English In Kentucky


















Wednesday May 23rd 2018Tim Candler9


    Maintaining paths around and through the hay field can join the cause of agony then leaves the soul refreshed, but it's a tradition with a rich oligarchic heritage that goes back to what could be one single moment of inspiration which when Goggle Earth was black and white struck a chord. In the way back archives you'll find an image of what could be a crop circle in the shape of a series of Mango Patterns, a sure sign of alien visitors or a cry for help. These days it's more plodding, same old paths in the field, where Violet flourish and plenty of Clover blooming for the Bees, and when the hay is high these paths are used by Deer and Turkey on their dainty way from here to there. You might see a flotilla of Quail and their chicks. And too when the hay is high, and you're crouching on a geriatric riding mower you can't see much of the horizon through the brim of your hat, but you have a good view of the path ahead and behind, and usually, following contact with a surfeit of drifting pollen, you can't breath or see well for a day or two afterwards.



     Nor is your mower of paths that comfortable around Dogs. Ahead, as he wended his way, he saw what looked like a big puppy. It had that Koala Bear cuteness of fluffy ears and it was just lying there staring at me. One of the things about Coyote they always watch  awhile, decide whether you're edible, whether you're dangerous or whether you're entertaining enough to follow around for a bit. And it's a nerve-racking fact that adolescent Coyote, like the young of our own species, are sometimes beset by an unnatural curiosity. I can tell you this much, it was a relief when he or she endured the thought processes and finally chose to leave the path, disappear into the longer grass. In keeping with path traditions, you mow twice, there and back for a wider swath and to catch the strays. There was a moment in me that did consider a short cut home, but what with the heat, sweat in the eyes and being bound to the iron law of oligarchy I just went for it. On the return there were two Coyote in the path. The one with a look of outrage in her face was definitely not a puppy. I vividly recalled a recent report about pack of wild mixed breed Dachshunds who'd dispatched a teenager in woodland somewhere in California. Must have been a horrible, yapping sort of way to join with the End Time.


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