The Birds Have the Best Liquor

Where are all the birds this morning? Have they flown off to an underground bunker where a fat robin in a waistcoat is serving worm margaritas and sunflower seed wafers? They know, as I know only because of radar and the weatherpeople, that a big snow is due to hit us this evening, dumping masses of wet, icy slush all over us, the hopeful tulip leaves, and the sickly grass. The robins have taken cover. They'll be smoking cigars somewhere tonight by a roaring fire.

The creek at the bottom of the hill is frothing close to the banks. We've had steady rain for days now.

Oh! I see a couple of tiny blackbirds in the Bird Tree outside my window--what are those sharp-beaks called? And they're off. Someone reminded them to get out of open air. Right now the air is mild and heavy. When I stepped out with the garbage, it felt like a May morning.


My mother is drying her hair (a novelty around here--Bea was so entranced yesterday that she summoned her friend E to come and watch, as excited as if there were elephants pouring tea); my father is in Bangkok; Martin is off on a conference, the girls are speaking in falsettos while they fix a pretend party. Elspeth just told Beatrix, "Your mother died!"

"Oh, no!" Bea said.

"And your father died!" Elspeth continued.

"Oh, no!"

"And there's a monster, and a robot, and a witch!"

"That's terrible!"

I am pushing my luck. In two minutes my mother will come around the corner and say, "Oh, my! You're not dressed yet!"

Better scoot.

PS. I just saw a rather tipsy chickadee stagger off the end of our deck. That's the last time she has a cocktail before ten a.m. Silly bird.