I planted a man outside my living room window, a seven-foot tall stick figure with wavy, wiry hair. I found him at Mathy’s Garden Center and conscripted him to hold my new bird feeders. It wasn’t what he was designed for, but he doesn’t seem to mind. I still fill the old bird feeders, but they’re too far away from my window to get the best view. All my bird books are out on the coffee table, along with a pair of binoculars. Although the neighbors across the street probably think I’m perverted, I’m just trying to learn all the visitors’ names. So far I’m still very generic, warbler (very yellow on the belly, but kind of mottled about the head), hummingbird (green back), flycatcher, chickadee, finch, woodpecker (downy or hairy, I’m not sure). The juvenile cardinals look hilarious, with their half-mohawk style. Maybe by next year I’ll get this bird thing down. Or the neighbors will call the cops on me. Either way, it will be something learned.
The Liam Rector book finally came today. I’m ready. Simic is technically perfect, I think, but not pulling me hard enough to dive in. Ferlinghetti is growing on me. Tom has borrowed all my Denis Johnson, fiction and poetry, along with the Anchor Book of Short Stories, and taken the lot to Kalamazoo. I’m happy with what he’s reading and at the same time hoping he finishes them up soon. I’ve grown attached to those books and hate to have them travel so. Children are the great appropriators of the trappings of their parents’ lives. So it goes.