On not writing

Just over a week now since the migrants' return.

All on one day, it seemed: slim robins running across the blasted grass -- idiots, every one of them, thrusting out their rusty breasts like field marshals. (That's Turdus migratorius, of course, a stringy thrush, rather than the small but juicy Erithacus rubecula.) Then, gulls screeching, crows crowing, the sparrow hawk starting its mad trill from the top of the spruce tree. And best, and so out-of-reach, the long Vs of the wild geese.

Not so out of reach is the tiny nuthatch. His pneumatic beak has been tapping out a hollow in a nearby tree. An unlovely Manitoba maple, I think, but it's old and full of bugs. It's got a lovely corrugated skin, excellent claw-holds, a road to swarm up with a clatter and a snap.

So, I've been biding my time. And when spring and the flies have finally arrived, who wants to be typing away? Least of all, don't bother with the words of any posting human. They are all self-important idiots, like Monsieur Turdus. Nothing to do except peep their feeble triumphs, "Look at me! Look at my feathers! This is my branch! This is my mud!"