June has arrived.  (Do days; months matter?)  I went to Rockefeller State Park 
this morning (Pocantico Hills, NY), and found the hybrid Lawrence’s Warbler at 
its appointed intersection (Farm Hill Road and Ash Loop).  It was in the same 
tree comfortably and close to a blue winged, and was curious if they’d mate.  I 
did not notice or hear any migrants this morning (although the last warbler 
through, the high pitched blackpoll, I cannot come close to hearing), just 
breeders and year rounders, but did have some nice birds, great crested fly 
(multiple), scarlet tanager, rose breasted grosbeak, warbling and red eyed 
vireo, yellow warbler and redstart, flock of cedar waxwing, eastern bluebird, 
indigo bunting, and pileated woodpecker.

And now I must digress, so most of you may want to stop here.  On my daily walk 
this morning which is starting earlier as the heat comes and the crowds grow, I 
was thinking how weary I am of all this; as I imagine most of you are by now.  
I want to see my family, friends, colleagues, go see some live music, go eat a 
burger and fries at the counter of a greasy spoon, maybe even with a black and 
white frappe for solidarity as much as I because I like them (not a milkshake 
where I’m from); but most weary of having flashing in my mind photos from my 
youth of Bull Connor, and those from my hometown, of Louise Day Hicks, and from 
Kent State which had its 50th anniversary a few weeks back, and the weariness 
to know that in our rudderless, leaderless Country in the middle of a pandemic; 
nothing changes. As Bruce Cockburn sang “the trouble with normal is it only 
gets worse.”  In my weariness, I was reminded me of this beautiful poem, called 
it so happens, “Weariness” (as translated), by the great Chilean poet Pablo 
Neruda.  Here it is in English, I commend you to it. 
https://katikhu.livejournal.com/12420.html. And since Spanish is the loving 
tongue and many of you  may speak it, here’s the original 
  I understand people are learning new languages during the pandemic, I guess 
I’m just too old or too weary to do so.   In his weariness Neruda speaks of 
chickens which, reminds me of another song, “Canned Goods” (by Greg Brown a 
wonderful songwriter/ storyteller from Iowa or one of those Midwest places) who 
talk/sings about visiting his grandma's farm in summer for some fried chicken. 
He mentions the Neruda poem in his rambling. The live version all 14 minutes of 
it is hilarious and evocative of summer, and may (should) put a smile on your 
face.  https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=wcs0oEz4QSE. Ok, that’s it.  Stay safe, 
peacefully protest (masked), and good birding to all.

L. Trachtenberg


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