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The Cuckoo Man

Day that flies by. Unwelcome evening comes soon.  Up early. Greet the day with joy. Feel

full of beans. Don't know why. Wait

yes, I remember, sixteen years ago I gave birth to my middle son. Sixteen years! Where

did that  time

go? I never stopped to think. Still greet the day that's in it. Pull up the yellow venetian


in the kitchen to

welcome the morning light. The kitchen is a haven, still quiet at seven am. It is just me

and the

fat cat who brushes against my bare legs. Sensual, lazy, swaggering fat cat. Brew the

coffee. First

thing. Then, stop to inhale the day. Ahh. Yes. Look beyond. Out into the midst of the

sacred bright yellow gorse and the, thankfully,

vacant lot beside the house and then allow your eyes to stray to the road. He is back. The

Cuckoo Man. I never hear him come. He must turn off the engine to his motor bike long

before he gets to stand alongside the hedgerow where, once in his station, he carefully 

unfolds  the case to his

binoculars and lift their weighty magnificence to his eyes,  to look skyward. To stand,

watch. To  listen. From my

stance in the window I can

see that he has grey hair falling around a handsome burnished face. He is clad in one of


flourescent jackets that shines in the dark. He stands there looking up, looking toward the

house.  Shit, can he see me?  Wary of being spotted, I step back as I reach for the

percolated coffee. It bubbles and steams in my face.  I watch him,

watching for, birds, cuckoos. But can you

see a Cuckoo?  Do Cuckoos really eat their babies?

I know he is the Cuckoo Man because once the sound of the mysterious bird enters this


the Cuckoo Man will not be seen until next April. I make pancakes for my son's birthday. I 

toss ripe, swollen blueberries into the mix. When he rises I embrace him and say, sixteen

years ago I gave birth to you. Where did the time go? And do you think that Cuckoos 

eat their babies. I am sure I heard or read that somewhere, sometime ago. 

Eat babies? 

4 Comment count
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Happy birthday to the middle

Happy birthday to the middle son! I am a middle daughter, so I relate to anyone who got stuffed in the middle. :-D

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Ellen Sheeley! You turned

Ellen Sheeley! You turned out pretty well for a middle child! Mp

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Are there really cuckoo birds?  Near you?  I don't know why but I guess I just assumed cuckoo birds were only in clocks. Hmmm.  And they eat babies????  Glad you son escaped!  I got mad at the Cuckoo Man for disturbing your kitchen solitude that I was really enjoying.  But he was an interesting addition to your morning.

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Oh Sue, you don't know what

Oh Sue, you don't know what you are missing. Spring without the cuckoo is like strawberries without cream! Each year I long for it, it confirms the closing of the final door of Winter, the promise of things to come. You can actually google the sound of the cuckoo if you like. Highly recommended. Mp