Short Fictions from Web Del Sol


Bradford Morrow

Bird watchers squat in their blinds with their glasses, their knees going stiff. their shoulders aching. They prattle away Patagonian hours, and wait bated-breath to catch a glimpse of you-know-who. They can't hear us, but we hear them, and have heard quite enough when we hear them say, Never seen a Little cock but it's justly named. Little cock, Little cock? Nonsense and bunk. Which but a beast of pride and pluck would choose for its home a thorn bush? Which but a bird of savvy demure'd have the sense to hide from the blue rinse brigade? It's said we don't possess the faculty of flight. Travesty and lies. We don't bother to rise. We make ourselves scarce. We're swift and wise. We know we're swell and know our size. Down by the Rio Negro we do our thing. We scold when we want. We strut and chirrup. Come and let us baffle you if that's your game. But never, ever, call us by name.

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