Written by George Ellison – When the old man and his dog wandered into town it was just after nine of a Saturday morning.
“My bird,” said the old man as he sat down beside me on the bench at the Bryson City depot, “don’t know but just one song. Most who’ve heard it are long gone. Others might hear it are yet born. When he sing that song someone be sure to receive a decision.”

“What sort of bird is he?” I asked, while trying to remember the old gentleman’s name … Crisp? … Jenkins? … Watkins? … something like that. His dog’s name was Jack. His place was over in Burnt Cove near the abandoned rock quarry where he lived alone.
“No one knows,” the old man replied.
“My job’s to sing in the morning and bring the ticket to the station that night,” said a peculiar-looking bird perched on a lamp post. He was as big as a buzzard but had a yellow head, an ebony body, and feet.
“What sort of bird are you?” I asked.
“No one knows,” he replied.
“Did you write the song?” I asked.
“No, I just sing it,” he replied.
“Is it a happy song?” I asked.
“Depends on who’s hearing it and when and other factors beyond our control,” Jack said. “He knows more than one song but this one suits the occasion.”
“What sort of occasion?” I asked.
“It’s the song he sings in the morning while perched or circling overhead so the one that’s been chosen knows it’s time to get ready to ride on the last train when it leaves the station that same night,” Jack said as if he were reciting a well-rehearsed line from a play.
“Would he sing it for me?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Jack, nodding at the bird.
“It’s the only song he knows,” said the old man.
“I know other songs,” said the bird, “but this one suits the occasion.”
“Just sing the song,” said Jack.
It sounded sort of like Tom Waits’ rendering of “Fannin Street”:

I’ll be there with your ticket when it’s time.
I’ll be watching from the shadows late at night.
I’ll be there when that fiery engine burning bright
rumbles out of the station and passes over the river
into the land rolling down those long steel tracks
headed for your next destination on the last train.

“Is that it?” I asked after several moments of silence.
“That’s it,” said Jack. “We didn’t write it.”
“The part about the “fiery engine burning bright” sounds like Van Morrison,” I said.
“Never heard of him,” said Jack. “We didn’t write it.”
“My bird,” said the old man, who had gotten up and was walking away with his dog leading the way, “don’t know but just one song. Most who’ve heard it are gone. Others might hear it are yet born. When he sing that song someone will receive a final decision.”
“He knows several songs,” said Jack, “but that one suits the occasion.”
When I looked back up the peculiar-looking bird was a tiny speck in the sky.
“He’ll be back,” said Jack. “Sort of peculiar … but he’s a very reliable bird.”

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Artist and paper-maker Elizabeth Ellison has exhibited at NC Arboretum, NC Botanical Garden, Schiele Museum and numerous other facilities. She is the owner-operator of Elizabeth Ellison Watercolors on the town square in Bryson City NC and prepares the artwork for the weekly Nature Journal column she and her husband, George, contribute to for the Asheville Citizen-Times. Contact and see more of her work at www.elizabethellisonwatercolors.com.

Writer and naturalist George Ellison was the winner of the Wild South Ashe-Roosevelt Award for environmental journalism in 2012. That same year his Permanent Camp was one of three finalists for the Southern Independent Booksellers Association award for poetry, and his Blue Ridge Nature Journal had previously been a finalist for SIBA’s non-fiction award. He writes columns for Smoky Mountain News, Asheville Citizen-Times, and The Newsletter of the Southern Appalachian Botanical Society. Contact him at www.georgeellison.com