Smokey Mountain Breakdown

Each spring they build them. Little shelters of moss, grass, twigs, but also shreds of plastic Wal-Mart shopping bags, paper towels and cellophane. Sometimes they use the discarded wool I leave out. I find locks of hair from the past groomings of long dead dogs, much beloved. Cozy little wreckages. Twisted heaps of memories. Baskets of the forgotten and thrown away. All done up with a hole in the middle, ready to receive new life who will look at such things as the ultimate newness. Such a marvelous thing, bird nests.

These aren’t special birds, the house wrens. They are common little birds that some think of as pests. But I love having them nest on my back porch. They build these nests in every space they think might work. They lay cinnamon toast eggs in surreptitious clutches. I try to be careful not to disturb them. This year, her nest is in my tool cabinet. I was going to move that thing but now will have to wait until her babies are hatched and flying. Flown away to their own little lives.

I’ll try to give you updates on their progress. Cheep. Cheep.

I love going through my spam folder. I just look at the titles mainly. I get a lot of Chinese and Japanese spam. Prolly from all the anime I watch. You know, I have to keep an account on a website just to keep track of it all. Who knows what they are saying to me with Kanji or Han--probably the same ridiculous things they are saying to me in English. I've noticed a trend of heckling spam. Spam that has titles like "You look really stupid," and "What a stupid face you have here!" Once one even claimed to have a picture of me naked.

I mean, you know if somebody has a picture of you naked. You just do. Do you really care if you look stupid? If I had a dime for every time I looked stupid, I'd be mostly wealthy. Evidently there are enough people worried that someone might have a photo of them stupid or naked.

I've been watching the birds recently. They are very active. Since I don't have the huge goatherd I used to have, the grass in the pasture has grown up and attracted lots of birds. There is a bluebird who sits on my hammock outside my window as I write. He sits there and cocks his head at me. I've tried to take his picture but he flies away.

Do you know about the bluebird's mating ritual? I'm plotting a short story off of it. The male, the pretty, flashy one, launches himself to the ground in front of the female and thrashes around like he's mortally wounded. He carries on like an Italian soccer player being fouled then takes off into the air. I'm not sure what response this is meant to evoke in the female. Pity? The pity of bluebirds must be a powerful thing. The Appalachian people believe bluebirds mate for life. It may be true. I don't know.

I was gifted with a remarkable image the other day about doves. They believe that doves have teats under their wings to feed their young milk. When asked if I had heard of this, I said, "No, but they are really tasty." I loves me a bit of squab and wild rice.

I'm guessing this belief stems from pigeon's milk. That's not exactly the same thing, but I can see where the myth began.