From my temporary home in a room at the Upshur Manor Nursing Center. I can look out at two tubular feeders that I didn’t buy, but have enjoyed watching.
That is, I did enjoy watching, until a man in white shirt and pants, which looked like the kind of clothes a van or bus driver might wear, came up the other day and emptied both feeders, confusing me and a flock of birds as well. I resolved to buy new bird seed at the earliest possible opportunity.
Meanwhile, I thought of the stranger as “the man who steals seeds from birds.”
BUT THIS OLD world can confound you whenever you think you’’ve got things basically figured out.
As this was written, on the afternoon of Sept. 9., another man, not young, wearing a red shirt and white pants, came along and filled one of the feeders to the top. This exhausted his seed supply, I guess, but the birds and I are grateful.
Unfortunately, the birds’ benefactor and their malefactor got away too soon for me to give them my opinion. In place of that I will pass on Barbara Hamby’s unusual version of The Lord’s Prayer, as follows:
Hear my prayer, O Lord, though all I do all day is watch
old black-and-white movies on TV. Speak to me
through William Powell or Myrna Loy, solve the mystery
of my sloth. Show me the way to take a walk or catch
a cold, anything but read another exposé
of the Kennedys. Teach me to sing or at least play
the piano. For ten years I took lessons, and all
I learned was to hate Bach. Shake me up or down. Call
me names. Break my ears with AC/DC—I deserve far
worse. Rebuke me in front of my ersatz friends. Who cares?
They don’t like me much anyway. Make me fat in lieu
of thin. Give me a break or don’t. I’m a hundred million
molecules in search of an author. If that’s you, thank you
for my skin. Without it I’d be in worse shape than I’m in.