The Wichita Lineman

There they were, lined up like ducks in a shooting gallery: dozens of birds on telephone wires across The Avenue. (There are many avenues here in Northeastern Pennsylvania, but only one The Avenue -- Wyoming Avenue.) The birds sat there on the wires and, as I waited for the light to change so I could pass under them, I remembered that birds don't wait; whatever has to be let go will be let go without warning. NIMBY, Not In My Back Yard, gives way to NOMC, Not On My Car.

Are they flying south for the winter, and just happen to stop at a good-looking wire? Or are they year-rounders and this is the time of year they start hanging out together talking about the wusses that flap their wings and head for Florida?

They sit there, ominous figures against the sky, waiting to swoop down on the unaware, the elderly, the sickly. They are plotting, sizing up their prey, choosing their victim.

The light changes. I go my way, protected by the steel and glass cage that moves so smoothly and quickly that even these evil-eyed denizens of the intersection pass on taking me out and return to their business.

Everybody Has A Story:
I occasionally run across the obituary of a person who was in the Normandy invasion. With all those who died on the beaches those days, I think it’s close to a miracle that anyone survived to live a full life. It must have been horrid and affected them for years.