With any luck Old Man Winter has took his last gasp, and ain’t jest lurkin’ around the corner fixin’ to blow another cold one up our back sides.
Good thing, too. I’m tired of all that fool talk from EnviCan about the “cold wind chill”. Maybe we can have a touch of “hot wind warm” fer a spell, whilst they think on some new ways to mess up the langwidge.
Keep yer eyebulbs peeled fer what they call “distant presippitashun”.
Finely got the rag out and wiped the wood smoke off my windows. Jimminy whiskers, its like I got a dubble-dubble of daylite savin’.
Don’t help in terms of gettin’ much work done. Seems I spend haff my time boilin’ tea, and the other haff at the window slurpin’ it back whilst I watch the parade slip past.
With all the snow this year, I mite get a reel fix on what my yard looks like some time around July. Rite now its poke-a-dotted with nuggits that ain’t from the Golden Arches, and a fresh crop poppin’ up evry day like mushrooms.
I sware theres a hole other world outside my cabbin. The biggest surprize is all the wild life, birds most of all.
Now, I never payed much nevermind to birds till a few weeks back, when Wilferd’s wife Merna dropped by fer a bit of a jaw.
A reel keener fer the birds, that one. The kind that heads to the woods of a Boxin’ Day with spyglasses swingin’ from her neck, jest to check up on ’em.
So this day she brang a bag of sun flower seeds the size of a barn. Said somethin’ about idol hands bein’ the devils playground, and why not take a few minnits evry day to help her fethered frends?
Did’nt want to hurt her feelin’s, so I tossed a few hand fulls on an old galvonyzed warshtub that was layin’ downside up in the yard.
By golly, in no time it was like bein’ stuck in some Alford Hitchcok movie. The yard was full of stripey little critters swoopin’ and divin’ like kamakassy flyers with the air traffick folks all on strike.
Merna calls ’em common red poles. With there grubby white bellys and red heads, its like bein’ at an Irish skool picknick.
The long and the short is, I got kinda hooked on watchin’ the little gaffers. What ever it is that birds do to earn there keep, these ones are at it all day long. And they go thru them seeds like an all-you-can-eat buffay.
Today about a dozzen was on the warshtub peckin’ and spittin’ like baseball players. Plunked rite in the middle, like a fat brown Budda, was a sassy sqwirrel, chompin’ away on the same grub and not givin’ the birds a second look.
Nice to see fur and fethers get along so good, without gettin’ there nickers in a twist.
Must be a lessen there somewheres fer the rest of us.
Yer pal,
