Wednesday May 23rd 2018Tim
around and through the hay field can join the cause of
agony then leaves the soul refreshed, but it's a tradition with a rich oligarchic
heritage that goes back to what could be one single
moment of inspiration which when Goggle Earth was black
and white struck a chord. In the way back archives you'll find an
image of what could be a crop circle in the shape of a
series of Mango Patterns, a sure sign of alien visitors
or a cry for help. These days it's more plodding, same
old paths in the field, where Violet flourish and plenty
of Clover blooming for the Bees, and when the hay is high
these paths are used by Deer and Turkey on their dainty way
from here to there. You might see a flotilla of Quail
and their chicks. And too when the hay is high, and
you're crouching on a geriatric riding mower you can't
see much of the horizon through the brim of your hat,
but you have a good view of the path ahead and behind,
and usually, following contact with a surfeit of
drifting pollen, you can't breath or see well for a day
or two afterwards.
Nor is your
mower of paths that comfortable around Dogs. Ahead, as
he wended his way, he saw what looked like a big puppy.
It had that Koala Bear cuteness of fluffy ears and it
was just lying there staring at me. One of the things
about Coyote they always watch awhile, decide whether
you're edible, whether you're dangerous or whether
you're entertaining enough to follow around for a bit.
And it's a nerve-racking fact that adolescent Coyote,
like the young of our own species, are sometimes beset
by an unnatural curiosity. I can tell you this much, it
was a relief when he or she endured the thought
processes and finally chose to leave the path, disappear
into the longer grass. In keeping with path traditions, you mow twice, there
and back for a wider swath and to catch the strays.
There was a moment in me that did consider a short cut
home, but what with the heat, sweat in the eyes and
being bound to the iron law of oligarchy I just went for
it. On the return there were two Coyote in the path. The
one with a look of outrage in her face was definitely not a puppy.
I vividly recalled a recent report about pack of wild
mixed breed Dachshunds who'd dispatched a teenager in
woodland somewhere in California. Must have been a
horrible, yapping sort of way to join with the End Time.