Tree swallow among the sumach, gazing into the foggy ethereals!
I was poorly already, but when the word came down that one of our rarer warblers was eating bugs in Etobicoke, it became essential for me to spend 5 hours in and around the dirt, snitching along the creek, hoping for pop-ups, easy light, and pictorial sweetwindows. Anyhow, the Kentucky Warbler is an elegant little softy but he is a demon also, and I consider him at least partially responsible for the influenza which ensconced me like a blanket of cold and leggy spiders! But feisty mulchers, worry not: I am on the mend, am no longer agued, and will live to taxidermize and photograph the good Spring warblers yet again!
Another pleasant look at the simple but dressy Kentucky Warbler, seen some days ago in southeast Etobicoke. Then I got influenza and hid in my apartment, but now it’s time to go snitching again. P.S. The lamebrained composition was necessary because of problems to the left and right.
I was wobbling through the city and thought “Caffeine might help” and in Toronto we are lucky: there is a Tim Hortons on every corner! “Have I at last hit rock bottom, ha ha!” I wondered. “Well, what’s the difference?” I moved to enter but first held the door for an exiting hobo with a vanquished face who came thugging slowly through the doorway, taking troubled sips of steaming hot chocolate with a straw. Immediately I exploded with worry: But no no, the bad plastic will melt into your beverage, the straw will shard and disintegrate into your terrible saccharine drink, the chemistry will be unthinkable! Puzzles of the city: Why the sudden eruption of humanity, when usually I don’t even look at people anymore! Well, that’s not really true. Actually, I’m told I stare at people in restaurants and on the subway trains. I can’t help it, or I don’t know I’m doing it while I’m doing it. Staring is impolite! Anyhow I held the door until the ghost passed by me, and then of course I decided that the last thing I needed was to set foot and spend money in that ubiquitous stinkhole of false Canadian promises and so instead I slunk home and here I am now with this marvelous towhee. The towhee is much-cherished but seldom-seen, and as I type these words to you, my heart feels just fine again. I understand, of course, it’s not my heart, the heart is only a blood pump, over and over until life’s end, about 5 or 6 litres every minute. No no: it’s the brain that feels feelings, of course and always the howling brain. Are birds nervous? Lonesome? Frightened? Not in any way that we could ever understand, so please don’t try. Sink instead into your warm avian vespers and say goodnight.