LOGID#1 (june 24, 2004; 13:22): Seeing kids catch killeewillees is the one true sign that summer has come. The children laugh a lot when they catch killeewillees; they have fun. The killeewillees usually die, though, because they’re crushed by the sweaty, sticky child-hands. They make the awfulest sounds when they die, those baby birds. They screech when the children approach them, and try to run away, but those long, brittle legs won’t support the weight of their bodies. They run around—run, stoop, run, stoop. The children always catch them, though, and the ones that survive they take to the shore and most of those die because their parents abandon them. The killeewillees that do survive come back here every year to lay their eggs and the little kids who wouldn’t dream of catching killeewillees last year (the big ones will swoop at your head!) are ready for killeewillee catching now. Usually older women (50s, 60s… old broads, you know—remember the war and all) supervise the hunt. They always wear bright clothes and they always end the day with a walk to the wharves and docks. The children stay home to look for any straggling birds. Men don’t usually get involved in the festivities. They still remember their embarrassing years as youthful killeewille hunters. They usually go to the shop on the corner and eat peanuts and drink their ‘pop’ (whiskey in Coca-Cola pop bottles) instead, which is fine by the old women who can’t stand them anyway. When the killeewillees are on the shore, the day is complete and everyone goes home and thinks about what a great day they’ve had, but sometimes at night you can hear the forgotten or overlooked killeewillees that are straggling around, or the high, loud shrieks of dying baby birds, so you close the windows.