SmokeSound

Scott Walker, an acolyte in the Trump Cathedral of Medieval Notions, listened to Mr. Trump proclaim the beauty of a wall on our border with Mexico, all the way from the Caribbean to the Pacific and, just to show that did not think that he should only light candles for Mr. Trump, suggested that we should consider a wall between us and Canada, too. I recall the time--probably in the 1970s, when I proposed to my ethics class that we avoid mutual nuclear destruction, and at the same time guarantee our security from invaders along our seashores, by building huge medieval catapaults loaded with green cowshit all along the shorelines, east and west.  Nothing is more discouraging than half a ton of flying cowshit.  Unless, of course, it is a political campaign. I was ahead of my time.  It is nearly perfect.  A Great Trump Wall all along our southern border to resist Genghis Khan, a Walker Wall between us and Canada to stem the flow of freedom-loving U.S. citizens trying to flee primar

At the AZ Sonora Desert Museum The Cardinals at our bird feeder are lovely, but fairer still are their relatives who patrol the patio near the gift shop at the Desert Museum.  They are like models, I suppose, strutting while the rest of us merely shuffle, or lumber about.   Our decade in Minnesota taught me to love the Common Loon, equally as beautiful, and like many another beauty, with a dreadful and unforgettable voice. The merit of the Common Loon is its name.  It is impossible not to apply it to more deserving critters. Birds have wonderful names!  The Greater Pewee, and the Invisible Rail.  Firewood Gatherer.  The Olive Warbler, which is neither olive nor a warbler.  The Lazuline Sabrewing Hummingbird. The Tits deserve a paragraph of their own:  Tufted Titmouse.  The Sombre Tit, the Blue Tit, the Great Tit, and in a related family, the Agile Tit-Tyrant.  (It is neither modesty nor disinterest that causes me not to comment, but fear of retribution.) U

I stood there like a cow Staring at a new gate      gone bad somehow Scrubbing the engineering      corners of my brain Seeing that though it had bolts They had been welded      after the bolting Thinking only how to ease The woodsmen coming      not to spare the tree But to measure it roughly      to firewood And haul it to the drive And after wrenching      and crow-barring      the hinges Thus exhausting all my higher      technology Simply swung it the other way Because I liked geometry More than engineering      anyway

I am resting from my labors. No, no!  Not in the We-are-in-church-trying-to-pretend-that-Conrad-was-a-warm-fuzzy-fellow kind of way!   I just came in from the cold. . . .  No, that was a book.  I was out in the heat, clearing away things so that people who do real  work can work;  specifically, removing vegetable garden irrigation things so as not to trip up the guys wheeling the tree-in-pieces to the street. A couple of nights ago, it rained in our little part of Tucson, and sometimes when it rains, the wind blows in a peculiarly exuberant fashion.  It blew exuberantly, and persuaded a rather large mesquite tree to yield way, landing on the sawhorses I had been using to build a place for flower pots, and on the fence along the south side of the house.  Fortunately, it did not rain on our house, so to speak.  We cannot see the fence, but it does not take a genius. . . . From up on the hill, one can see that the tree is almost as tall lying down as it was standing up.  There