Midday of a late summer day
the vast bowl of the sky gleams
pewter, a shield of high-flung cloud
guarding the sun above. Midday,
but in the dry, green-canopied
forest it is dark and cool, a
ripple of breeze shifting leaves
languidly. Stillness prevails.
Until, cutting the tranquility
a penetrating, protracted hoot of an
owl sounds, waits, repeats itself,
waits again and continues to break
the silent wood of its lassitude. A
replying caw from a single crow in
flight, a contrapuntal challenge.
The owl's territorial presumption
soon develops into a murder of crows
hysterically mounting a frenzied
chorus. The owl's softly reverberant
hoot drowned in the raucous
plenitude of derision and anger.
Targeting its perch, there on a
bare broken limb with ample
sight lines into the forest depths,
stolidly unperturbed by the storm
unleashed upon its unblinking head;
the crows, black and windborne
clattering like whirling dervishes.
Not quite a life-misadventure
but a bit of misfortune, yet
just as well that we cannot foresee
the future; that in the spring of youth
young men transfixed by the nubile
freshness and beguiling beauty of
the young woman with the
dark, soft eyes and lovely
encircling arms may become
by chance, a large and ailing
patient, bound to a wheelchair,
utterly dependent on the inadequate
physical strength of her similarly
aged, not quite so ailing husband.
For both of whom the other still
represents beauty, grace and
boundless love, absent youth.
Mightily forbidding, Thor smote
the sky. Again and yet again did he
lift his immeasurable hammer and
smite, heeding nature's imperative
command. With power and joyful
passion did the mighty warrior
rampage through the starless
firmament, crashing and smashing,
aiming bolts of fiery arrows
through the apprehensive atmosphere,
awakening the midnight creatures
below cowering in their transfixed
fear that the end of time was nigh,
Thor guffawed his mordant humour,
thrashing the heavenly elements.
They're back! it loudly exults, the black
feathered sentry calls, espying us
entering the ravined wood, as a
chorus of response and dark wings
assemble expectantly on nearby treetops.
Crows' clever minds and sharp eyes
alert to opportunity avidly taking note
of our peanut dispersal within craggy
nooks and crannies they have become
accustomed to triumphantly raiding.
They're back! we grumpily rumble,
loathe to replenish a daily delicacy for these
enterprising birds taking clear possessive
advantage of offerings left specifically for
chipmunks, squirrels, chickadees. Yes,
we admire their innate and nimble intelligence,
discernment in identifying us, our purpose
and the caches, but rebel at the very
notion of advantaging any but the
forest's meek and the humble.
Insensate, you say? Nasty
rodents, are they? The very
small, black squirrel with its
long, somewhat scruffy tail
confronts me. Reading in my
presence not-too-obvious signals
that something draws us to one
another. In these woods, we
are all animals of sorts.
In recognition of our similarities
in nature I come bearing gifts
as I am so often led to do,
leaving them where they will be
found and valued. This little
fellow certainly not one I
recognize with any familiarity
obviously seems to know me.
He hesitates but momentarily
in the near proximity of our
two little dogs taking no notice
of his audacity. Approaching
closer, veering off from the
forest interior, he awaits my
reaction, ventures closer yet until
I do react, sending a peanut
neatly tumbling his way.
Unhurriedly, the tiny fellow
breaches the remaining gap to
claim his prize, turning it in
his clever paws, securing it in
his maw, then proceeding at a
squirrel-leisurely pace, to depart.
No reckless behaviour, but one
born of trust and confidence.
We each come at things
in our own way, to suit
our own purpose. He reads
the editorial pages first,
then gradually makes his way
forward from aft, reading the
news, inconsequential parts
last. I make my orderly
way faithfully plodding
front-to-back. He, a
meat-and-potatoes man
has his meat first, the rest
follows. As for me,
I nibble that chocolate cake
and savour the icing last.
,
Madam, the good news
is that the retina of
your right eye is in
impeccable condition
for one of your age.
The bad news, I fear,
is that, unfortunately,
there is another stage-four
tear in the retina
of your left eye,
juxtaposed to the
scar tissue from your
surgery of eight months back
which was not present
when we examined you
several months ago.
