Who Sees the Waxwing’s Fall?


This morning I found a female cedar waxwing sitting on our driveway. I knew that she was injured. So, after taking a couple of photographs, I placed her in a small cardboard box and tucked her on our porch. I haven’t seen any cats in our neighborhood, but I nevertheless placed the box so a cat would have a hard time getting to it.

I checked the box a couple of times. On the second check, the bird had flown. I think that she had flown into the clerestory windows in our kitchen. We have bird-scarer decals on them, but they still claim the occasional bird. I’ve had to bury a few–much to my regret.

I’m hopeful that this one regained her senses and flew away.



I have been doing a fair amount of target archery the last several weeks. I have archered* in the past, and I have always enjoyed it; but I hadn’t done any for a couple of years. But my little girl did archery at camp and came back excited about it. I bought her a bow: pink, of course, and too heavy for her. But I then brought out an old Ben Pearson Jet that I had purchased for her big brother about a decade ago, when he and I were doing archery together.

I started looking around again and have ended up purchasing two “traditional” bows–that is, bows that do not have any sorts of cams. I purchased the second this evening: a PSE Blackhawk, which is a “recurve” bow. (When a recurve is strung, the tips of the limbs point away from the archer: thus the term.) The Blackhawk is an inexpensive bow, but it receives good reviews–and my skill level and non-hunterly** intentions don’t really call for anything better.***

In any event, the photo above shows part of the bow, along with a few arrows and my shooting glove.


* Like my coinage?

** I’m like a mint tonight!

*** But, thanks to an ad on the back of an archery magazine, I’m yearning for a Great Northern bow in green. Perhaps I should try to fund the purchase through Kickstarter . . .

“How terribly doing goes along the earth”


From William Faulkner, As I Lay Dying: 

I would think how words go straight up in a thin line, quick and harmless, and how terribly doing goes along the earth, clinging to it, so that after a while the two lines are too far apart for the same person to straddle from one to the other; and that sin and love and fear are just sounds that people who never sinned nor loved nor feared have for what they never had and cannot have until they forget  the words.