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Flycatchers

 Nasty little bugger!

The sun shines bright on our Pima County ball park home, and the Vermillion Flycatcher (I think it is) flirts with us by sitting on the shady side of the tree before zipping down to the outfield brass for a buggy breakfast, then back to the shade again before I can focus, or even find him with the lens.

One of the Old Timers tells of playing the outfield when a hawk exploded into his view, a few feet away, to pick up a snake in the grass.  (Even though that was not an election year.)

Other hawks used to sit on the high light poles, watching the game, wondering why anyone would be interested in catching a stuffed, bone-dry horsehide.

I am not a birder, having little of the interest and focus needed to identify what Plato might have called a biped with feathers.  (Plato said that a human being was a biped without feathers:  Diogenes plucked a chicken, tossed it out into the discussion, and said, "There goes a human being, Plato!")  (It is said, in retrospect.)  (Something like quoting Moses or Jesus or Mohammad or Mark Twain, a century or two later.  Waiting long enough gives time to sharpen the line.)

All I want is for the Flycatcher to pause for a second so that I can take a picture in good light.

That goes for the ball players, too.

I try to anticipate what might make a good photo:  perhaps a bobbled play at short, or what looks like it might be a long run and a catch in the outfield, or maybe a high fly ball coming out of the Sonoran Desert sun like a meteorite, and when I do, an infielder or an ump wanders right into the line of sight.

I can deal with ancient fly catchers, or bobblers.  I really want a Vermillion Flycatcher.


[My other blog is at:  www.tucsonoldtimers.blogspot.com ]






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