Just The Facts

 

She stopped the squad car on the
highway shoulder. The small white
bundle of fur wagged its tail and
she scooped it onto the passenger seat
informing the unfazed little animal
that he was her gift, an appeasement
offering for the little old look-alike
that broke her heart, an incurable
wanderer who has never come 
back, lost forever. Her five-year-old
would have faith in her mother
restored, and she would herself
regain a warm cuddly dependent.
It was clear the sweet creature
sitting trustfully beside her had no
objections. As an officer of the law
she had ruled; love begets trust
and trust engages love. So be it.
No harm done. And everyone gains.
With the possible exception of a
young woman returning home 
for the holidays in a school break
from her studies, anxious to be
reunited with her companion dog
who had ventured out in search
of the very soul yearning for him.

 

 

Maximilian

 

 

His accent is Swiss, still resonant through his
faultless diction, his obvious command of a
wide and distinguished English vocabulary. An
elegant, dignified, even courtly man of advanced
years. Ours, the most casual of relations, simply
another soul we see on occasion, rambling through
our neighbourhood woods. That place beloved
of those in the community who value proximity
to nature. And he, like we, is one of those.

His bodily frame is that of an aesthete, chest
concave, though his posture is not. He might have
been, in younger years, an academic, a scientist, for
he has that myopic air about him. A sweet-mannered
man, a shy smile and soft voice. No one could
doubt his touchingly grave sincerity.

His manner of dress elicits unspoken concern
for his comfort, for we who are aged coevals
mindful of such required weather-comforts note
such lapses. He exudes a certain air of poignancy
of one whose well-being has been neglected. His
red jacket insufficiently robust for the cold, the icy
wind; too loosely open at collar, his nose too red
his sparse-haired head too insubstantially covered.
Our two little dogs are coated with more care than he.

Maximilian, for such he is, now well recovered
from a heart 'episode', agrees when we speak of the
excellent level of professional care received at area
hospitals. His pale blue eyes water in the wind as his
head shakes his solemn affirmation. Could we take
the liberty we would wind a downy wool scarf about
his bared and scrawny neck, exchange his worn mittens
for a hardier pair. He volubly details his recent trauma.

Where, in recovery, both he and wife were admitted
to an nursing home for the three months he was in
need of therapeutic remediation. His wife there too
entirely dependent on his close ministrations to her
daily needs. Matter of factly, he is grateful for health
restored and the full recovery of life's quotidian certainties.
Grasping his two poles tightly he sets off again on his
ramble, wishing us in ours, a very good day. 

 

 

The Chosen Ones

 

Our world has been cradled in a profound stillness,
quiescent in expectation. Great care was taken in
preparation for this day, ornamented in the glitter
of bright and colourful baubles, and the exquisitely
sublime melodies of ages past provoking memories of
sadness and joyfulness. That which has been never to be
re-captured; that which will be to secure our futures.
A miracle has occurred albeit of brief duration, as
commerce has abruptly locked its doors bringing a
bereaved loss to some, relief to others, invested in the
spirit of the occasion which has occasioned a brief
harmony of spirit rare and treasured. Not a creature
appears to stir, not even a snow-suited child.

This is a wintry-cold day, the atmosphere
swaddled in snow and ice. The wind rattles
panes and stirs treetops in a wraith-like dance
their firm roots limit in perpetuity. Even the
great, bright orb of the sun seeks shelter behind
the haven of clouds this extraordinary day. This
brief hiatus in quotidian routine submitting
to annual commemoration of a divinely inspired
event is not universal in nature's calendar.
Elsewhere in this world the tragedy of fateful
destiny plays out as malevolent forces conspire
to wreak their deadly havoc in shades of blood
and gore, sacrificing human life to deadly terror.

Here, pacific emotions flow readily, absorbing
people in the rituals of familial love. Smoke rises
from chimneys of homes surfeit with holiday
cheer, abundant and rich feasts, and generous
gifts. There, across the world, foul dark smoke
rises from yet another suicidal-terror blast,
martyring one steeped in hatred, slaughtering
countless innocents haphazardly selected as this
day's chosen whose lives are obliterated, whose
families will mark the day in perpetuity to
the endless anguish of their mourning. 

 

 

Shivering Delight

 

The sky is generously dimpled and flocked
with layers of silver and white clouds
nicely scalloped in a prize-winning design.
Nature takes a bow, on this winter day.
Some wag has taken bows of scarlet silk
and appended them to a few of the frozen
forest trees, a fey nod to Christmas-in-the-woods.
The denizens are not particularly amused
however light the holiday mood.

The counterbalancing wind is sharply avid
in its icy probes, hungry to bite bare flesh.
The exquisite pain of its pointed, icy blasts
negating the peaceful beauty of the snow-capped
trees. Atop the dark, unadorned spire of a
long-dead pine sits the black figure of the
forest's cadaver-care-taking contingent, its
beady eyes quick to identify interlopers.

Ferocious wind gusts in the upper atmosphere
part the clouds and shafts of sunlight beam
down sweetly on the forest floor, threading
between winter-bare boughs, illuminating the
crystalline snow, glowing generous light without a
scintilla of comforting warmth. Shivering delight. 

 

 

A Satisfying Life

There is an elegant conformation in there,
deep within the black-grey unruly mop.
Her eyes watch warily beyond their
impairment. She trusts only to a certain
degree, insisting on her venerable entitlements.
She does not now take kindly to the usual
ministrations and unwanted manipulations
that offend her sovereign integrity and dignity.

Grooming results please us, but not of
necessity, her. It is, after all, her hair, her
teeth, her nails that we so officiously insist on
engaging with, and she feels understandably
affronted at our presumption, for she does not
impose her values upon us, so why must we
incessantly discommode her peace?

It helps not one iota that she now hears nothing
and sees almost as much. We do insist, on
occasion, that she submit to the process
whereby extraneous hair is shorn and once
again emerges the lovely little dog we adopted
eighteen years ago. Regardless, she would
much prefer not to be so importuned.

Take it or leave her be, for she yet remains
capable of and interested in long, guided
woodland rambles, albeit now forgetful of
long-familiar direction. And she remains
staunchly committed to meal times, with their
very important, anticipated treats. What more,
after all, should a satisfying life be comprised of? 

 

 

 

The Adventure of Life

 

There is a large old Golden Retriever
charged with the care and safety of the
two boys. It is clear she takes her charge
seriously, for she has an anxious look about
her as she paces between them, then races
after their downhill runs. The boys pay no
mind to the old dog, they are deep in the
pleasure of speed, giddy with the bold
power and excitement that envelopes them.

Each grasps his neat little skeleton sled,
takes his running start, then collapses onto
the sled fast dissolving into the long, snowbound
hill glazed by their countless spurts, with a
thick and slippery ice covering. The wind and
high spirits have painted their cheeks like
little drummer boys. Their voices rise to
challenge one another to greater exploits.

At the base of that long slope into the heavily
treed ravine stands an old pine which they evade
nicely, steering their snowcraft left or right;
sinister toward the icy, still-running creekbed,
dexter alongside an old trail skirting the creek.
A pileated woodpecker sounds its lunatic cry,
as though mocking them but the sound is lost
within their own peals of laughter.

The dog dashes desperately beside them,
its protective mission no slight delusion.
It clambers uphill when they do, each time
awaiting the signal to return home to security
and comfort. But the boys will have none of it.
The dense snowpack absorbs their shouts of
pure joy in the absorption of life's adventures. 

 

 

The Holy Day Domain

 

We have merged ourselves seamlessly into
a picture-perfect Christmas landscape
in a Northern clime. This day marks the
Winter Solstice, the shortest day-lit
event of the fading year. The moon has
revealed its dim, light-perfect orb
before slipping behind a veil of bright
clouds, obscuring the sun that would
shine. The tidal bore of the ocean today
higher, more powerful than is its wont.

That full moon, uniquely close to our
Earth, these days of a rare lunar eclipse
has called the seas to rise and surge
to achieve the fiercest tides on the calendar.
Globally, Europe has been battered by
vicious winter storms, high winds and
flooding rains. An earthquake strike
off Japan's coast is stoking a tsunami.

But here, all is peace and sublime serenity
as we lope through the still, snow-garbed
forest pathways. Even the birds are oddly
silent. The atmosphere is severely chilled
the wind plays nip-and-sting on our faces.
Evergreen boughs are stiffly laden with
layers of snow, freezing rain, ice pellets
and more snow. Everywhere we look
appears, in the forest interior, a wondrous
ice palace, smoothed with fluffy snow.

Animal tracks precede our own, readily
discerned. The scintillating delicacy of the
monochromatic landscape is brightened
and clarified by the silver light streaming
into the world below from the heavens above.
A light that so clearly emphasizes brilliant
shades of green under snow-packed trees.

The luscious orange of frost-split
bittersweet berries twined appealingly
along tree trunks; nature's improvised
seasonal decor. The ambient silence becomes
host, time and again, to aircraft splitting
the clouds toward holiday destinations.