Just when I’ve had a full meal of Bruce’s deeper work along flies even deeper wings but somehow lighter enough to connect with yesterday’s gathering of geese vees a-building along the St. Johns River marshes East of Sanford, Florida. This – and when they beat their tired way here about Halloween each year we are gifted mightily – especially with the near-winter fronts pile gray clouds low and lower still so we sometimes can hear the wingbeats and the soft, gentle callings, “I hope the pond has no more houses this year.”

Cat Nap Revue

at the traffic light
a wing of sandpipers flies
across my windshield

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“Best Buzzards A Man Can Have”

Black-winged cleaners

flew in, feasted and dared cars

to eat our foul toss.*


  • (Some uncaring example of why eugenics sometimes seems popular tossed out a plastic shopping bag of foulness – had to be meat of some kind, whether by store or by less wholesome thoughts – in the middle of my street.  The whirling privileged cars taking and then later that day bringing bright young things for their educational purposes and who knows what adult diversions managed but a pair of run-overs by the usual Sterling Mosses roaring down a rare Mille Miglia* flat portion and not a single stoop-over to see what’s in the bag, charlie.  Day two drew the usual crew of ugly-as-sin-on-a-long-stick vultures winging through the oaks to the prize, now well warmed and pre-masticated.  By afternoon’s herding call of louts who ignore courtesy and decency – the damn street is just wide enough with cars parked on but one side to allow meat wagons or fire trucks passage, not to mention even more important garbage and recycle pickups – and cut each other off, park wrongway pointedly, block driveways and walkways and mail box sentinels and run over curbs onto lawns. Hey, you, That’s Right! The flyer guys: wanna take some moving meat out of my range for me. Please. I promise to move the bagged whatisit over to where I usually set up the dead squirrels and such for your dining enjoyment. So, guys, cut me a break willya?)
  • (Mille Miglia: a long-defunct country-long Italian road race muchly through the uplands that killed not just drivers but the occasional spectator and the unwary local, thus the – I think – 1,500 mile race was banned before television found out what a wonderful way to watch humans at play.  What a wonderful opportunity for Go Pro or better yet drones stationed atop each driver, each car, and in the case of drones at the more spectacular roadrace danger points.  But then, Italian carrion collectors glutted by World War II and the general insensitivity of life and death among the non-elite – kind of like here, too, now – probably would have died from over-consumption.  I mean, the foxes surely had been hunted out of existence for their perceived threats to the truffles, no?)