Here at the COP, where we post most every Sunday about our woodland congregation, we often refer to them by name. Among our regulars are the aforementioned birds—including the cardinal, wood thrush, wood pee-wee, chickadee, oriole, catbird, blue jay, hummingbird, mourning dove, and many others. At times, during May migration, we note over 45 species in an hour. And we have our other fine members as well—the red squirrel and the gray, the woodchuck, chipmunk, white-tail deer, cottontail, and more.

Sometimes I refer to these friends as ‘creatures,’ but most often identify them specifically, according to appearance, habits, occupation or tradition. By contrast, we are dealing these days with an occupant in the People’s White House I simply refer to as The Creature. Readers will understand that by this I mean no slander or disrespect to our woodland creatures or others, but rather that this entity can be understood in no other way, and is identified by so many epithets and monikers that the overarching, non-specific handle of The Creature feels appropriate. He is unidentifiable by normal human means: from whence he came, why he is here, what possible purpose he may serve, etc. In fact, his very existence leads to the simple and essential question, Why?

Of course, the granddaughter has no idea of any of this. She simply delights in the morning woods, with all our friends. While The Creature and his minions delight in destruction, in tearing down 250 years of history and the continuing efforts to ‘form a more perfect Union,’ most specifically yesterday (June 6) when they dishonored the memory and legacy of the thousands of American heroes who died on the beaches of Normandy, in 1944. The Creature understands and cares about none of that. In fact, his Secretary of Idiocy and Dishonor (Hegseth) instead marked the day with words and sympathies that echo the ideology of the fascists we sent our young citizens halfway round the world to defeat. And they did. We did.

We still live in a free, non-fascist country because of them. Barely. But the fight is now and still upon us, resurrected by ignorance from the beaches of Normandy to our own Capitol, our own towns and cities, our own woods where the birds sing.

The Creature would not be/ is not welcome here. There is a vast and incomprehensible difference between the creatures we love and appreciate and the one who is so far from anything decent and useful that he cannot have a name. At least not one you can speak in front of a 7-year-old granddaughter who is listening to the birds.

They are singing, as always, beautifully, just as they did when I was a 7-year-old, listening from the screen porch over the backyard with my grandparents. Wherever you listen, Good Sabbath to you.