WISH THRUSH

AYBE IT’S JUST ME. Perhaps I’m just twisted —seeing birds in everything. Every. Thing. A break from the monotonous must-do necessaries (Why do today what can be worried over tomorrow?), and forgotten summer-hoarded shells fallen out of an old bag were just the entropic entangle needed to inspire a fantasy ramble. Without much thought and minimal rearranging, a being the Old Afro-Dutch for thrush) flew out! I’m not sure where one might find the species on a field guide page. Everyone from Johnny Jim Audubon to Kenn Kaufman seems to have forgotten it. From what I recall, the old folks called ’em “farther muckers,” owing to their legendary long-distance intergalactic peregrinations. It didn’t utter a single identifying call and I’m not so sure it even sings. I’m surmising that it was miraculously created on the first day of the week by a lesser pseudogod, given to easy distraction, procrastination, and an admiration for adaptation and evolution as wondrously divine—and too, a keen noticer who sees migration as miraculously sublime. Guessing too that the inspiration came from some attention to nonattention and wandering thoughts. Now this is the kind of deity with whom I fall in line!