July 6, 2009

Tale of Two Birds

It was the best of birds, it was the worst of birds.
Especially if you were a mourning dove.

The mockingbird had had enough, according to the wild pigeon!

It was the dove's turn now; now it would be the worst of times for the mockingbird. And what stuck in the craw of the mockingbird was the fact that his turn could now turn into the best of times for the dove. Birds don't turn over their turns nor their power of ownership, temporary as that ownership may be, lightly.

It was a standoff that no one could win.
Except the dove.

He could win a turn at the birdbath...and he did, though he simply sipped at the fountain, no heathen swarthy, roiling dips for him, no!

No unkempt mocking bird he. Delicate dustbaths are best for he of the pigeon family, that kingly family of homing birds. That coo-er of coos, that disdainer of 37 different birdcalls from one single mocking throat at one sitting.

The mockingbird could not have cared less...needed to dry off anyway, or so it seemed as he slunk to the Trellis/Arbor/Folly Structure from which he could preen whilst perusing the dove, feigning great feathered disinterest. In feathers. Well disinterest in the dove's dove colored flight feathers. Tail feathers, too for that matter. Disinterest well feigned because let's face it squarely: mockingbird feathers are dove gray as well! The shame!

Dear feathered friends,
Do try to remember that turn of phrase that keeps heady flights of fancy in their place; a phrase that saves one's tail in days of doubt. Do remember that "All's
well, that ends well!"

Well, except in Charles Dicken's Tale of Two Cities.
In that tome only "Some's well that ends well."

But the well was pretty good.
And the baths were pretty wet.


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