All the good stuff is gone.

Fresh out of the shower in the morning, things are zipping along and I feel rather like Hedley LaMarr in Blazing Saddles (Slim Pickens:  “Ditto, Mr. LaMarr!”), but usually by the time I get the chance to jot down these polished pearls of perfect prose for posterity’s perusal (take that, William Safire!) there’s not much left but a few sentence fragments and a faint whiff of brimstone.  Today was no exception – what was deathless prose at 7:45 am is now just dead.  I can’t even remember the key words that were supposed to get me started.  Phooey.  Well, at least I can put down that there was some warbler activity now that there is a short break in the Genesis-like deluge that we’ve been having this past week (a week of rain including two straight days of thunderstorms the first week of May?!  Sounds like something we’d expect if global warming was real, but luckily it’s just a cruel hoax perpetrated by Godless Liberals in order to get something or other (we’re a little vague on exactly what the goal of this is, but that’s the great thng about ideology – it doesn’t have to make sense).  Anyway, that reminded me of my Rules of Warbler Identification by Song.

Rule #1:  If it gets a lot louder, then it’s an Ovenbird early, a Blackpoll late in the migration.

Rule #2: If it’s loud and I can’t remember what it is, but it sounds cool, it’s a Redstart.

Rule#3: If it sounds like a cicada getting goosed, it’s a Parula.

Rule#4: If I can’t quite hear it, I can call it anything I want.

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