Monday, November 14, 2011



 
       There are two members of the Thrush Family where I live.  The Wood Thrush and the Hermit Thrush.  Both belong to a genre of bird that prefer not to be seen.  Through most of the finer weather I heard often from down the slope a particular sound that flummoxed me, which is an easy enough thing to do.

       I did think about Thrushes, I listened hard, dragging brain cells to attention in an attempt to concentrate upon sound.  And always the sound was gone from my mind by the time I reached a technical device where bird songs are collected in a neat and orderly manner.
 
       It was an unusual sound, primarily because of the range of noises, some of which were gentle and pleasing   And I felt horribly obliged to find this bird's name on the roster.  I'd sit on the front porch listening.  In the morning and then in the evening, I'd cock the head, nod wisely so I might appear usefully engaged and knowledgeable. 

      Of his contributions to the way we live and think, Aristotle's statement that "all science is either practical, poetical or theoretical" is a prelude to categories of understanding that still dominate.  It's a necessary division, I guess, and at the same time rather sad.

 


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