Bird Flew

Jack wrote this in July, 2006, in New Mexico:


There are signs, and there are signs.

Neighbor Wes tells me those rains brought us up to our yearly average (5 inches) moisture in three nights.  Looks as though more’s on the way.

I spent a lot of yesterday out digging silt out around the house, ditching, berming, putting up obstructions to help keep the water on the property and allow it to soak in.  Trying to keep it from widening and deepening the arroyos it cut in the driveway and through the carport.

Trying to slow it down, get it to drop some of that silt-loading here, instead of carrying it off onto Wes, down into the Rio Grande, over to Texas where they don’t need it.

Meanwhile, while I was working, a bald eagle landed in the tree behind Wes’s house.

Yeah, a sure enough bald eagle, right there in the treetop, me with four cats running around the yard.

I gave it a word of metaphysical advice:

“You,” says I, “There ain’t no America no more.  To me you’re no better than a buzzard.  You dip down here trying to snag one of these felines, I’m going to whack you with this shovel.”


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