October 29th 2009

    The Close Mockingbird wakes at dawn.  He sees the first glow of cold morning and he becomes a Wren.  From my bed I can hear him outside the window, chipping away with that song of his that won him territory.  And to think I was happy for him once.

   It is a tuneless and insistent sound that cuts the air with discordance.  No doubt in my mind why he dominated those of his kind who would steal this place away from him.  But now that the Dark Eyed Juncos are here, I wonder how much longer the Close Mockingbird will maintain his need for dangerousness.

    Outside when I first sniff the air, he reminds me of his many victories by rustling the few remaining leaves on the Cherry Tree and I find it difficult to call him gallant until my own sinews are adequately oiled by the sins of nicotine and coffee. 

    It is his enthusiasm I suppose that finally redeems in me an appreciation.  Puts me in mind to see if his children might learn this call of the Close Mockingbird.  Persuades me to think in terms of living longer.  Fills me with the existentialist germ that makes doctors wealthy.

    Or I could enter negotiations with indoor comrades.  But perhaps politer to relocate my own sleeping arrangements, sleep like a bear, and wake refreshed, than to suggest to the Grey Cat he has work to do.    

tim candler

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