Post by jbstillwater on Oct 7, 2007 15:45:09 GMT -5
He came to my garden every year, Old Harry. He would peek 'round the vigas of my porch, sing just a bit of a tune, and stop in mid air to give me salutations. His wings fluttered so fast, I suspected for a long time that they did not exist at all. But, you guessed it, like all scallywags, he eventually let his guard down, and I came to see those fluttering delicacies. Hovering before me, he looked for his nectar sweet. Of course, he always found what he was looking for, as I could never deny him, that old pal of mine. Then, off he would go, a swoopin' and a hollerin' across my yard, in a joyful cacophony of sounds. Old Harry was always happy to be where he was, never thought much about where he was goin' . . . he was already there.
And, then one evening as I sat on my porch, an old dust devil kicked up with a fright, spinnin' and twirlin' 'round me. I feared it was going to carry me and my old wicker chair off through the heavens, depositing me in a dusty, hay field, just west of Amarillo. When it finally settled into a respectable breeze, as often happens during that high desert time, it whispered something softly in my ear. It was about my Harry. This would not be any ordinary evening, no siree! Something very special was about to happen. The sun was setting, turning the Sandia Mountains behind me into giant Watermelons. The sky was turning blood red faster than a Roadrunner's race. For the first time that summer, the song of the Cicada stopped. Harry came. This time he was not alone. He had brought a friend. With a twill and a mid air feat, he said, "Howdy." It didn't take him long to consume his evening meal. She was next Then, off they flew! There was no doubt about it! It was clear to me that from that time on, I would be his fiddle two.
Then, one cool morning in early Fall, just as the Aspens were turning their most abundant shade of gold, I found him. His feathers were scattered 'round my tired looking rose garden. A bloody battle had ensued. There had been no care taken in the deed. Nor, was there any sign of remorse from the murderer, Amos, my best gal. She sat next to him, happily cleaning her whiskers with her soft, gray paws. She had given me the ultimate gift. She had given me Harry. I buried him 'neath my English Tea, his favorite, and looked for him no more. Until one sweet day in June, I heard that old familiar sound. It was the trill of unwavering wings. Next, it performed a mid air greeting, followed by a trip to the feeder. Off it flew, taking several swoops across my garden, fair. She was happy to be where she was, never thought much about where she was goin' . . . she was already there.
He had taught her well, my old pal, Harry. He taught her well.
And, then one evening as I sat on my porch, an old dust devil kicked up with a fright, spinnin' and twirlin' 'round me. I feared it was going to carry me and my old wicker chair off through the heavens, depositing me in a dusty, hay field, just west of Amarillo. When it finally settled into a respectable breeze, as often happens during that high desert time, it whispered something softly in my ear. It was about my Harry. This would not be any ordinary evening, no siree! Something very special was about to happen. The sun was setting, turning the Sandia Mountains behind me into giant Watermelons. The sky was turning blood red faster than a Roadrunner's race. For the first time that summer, the song of the Cicada stopped. Harry came. This time he was not alone. He had brought a friend. With a twill and a mid air feat, he said, "Howdy." It didn't take him long to consume his evening meal. She was next Then, off they flew! There was no doubt about it! It was clear to me that from that time on, I would be his fiddle two.
Then, one cool morning in early Fall, just as the Aspens were turning their most abundant shade of gold, I found him. His feathers were scattered 'round my tired looking rose garden. A bloody battle had ensued. There had been no care taken in the deed. Nor, was there any sign of remorse from the murderer, Amos, my best gal. She sat next to him, happily cleaning her whiskers with her soft, gray paws. She had given me the ultimate gift. She had given me Harry. I buried him 'neath my English Tea, his favorite, and looked for him no more. Until one sweet day in June, I heard that old familiar sound. It was the trill of unwavering wings. Next, it performed a mid air greeting, followed by a trip to the feeder. Off it flew, taking several swoops across my garden, fair. She was happy to be where she was, never thought much about where she was goin' . . . she was already there.
He had taught her well, my old pal, Harry. He taught her well.
and 
all
time for me 
echoes, hope you all are doing well 
