The truck, a white Ford F-150 with oversized tires was parked on the lawn next to the small parking lot, filling quickly as people arrived for the community market.
There was a giant flag fixed to the bed of the truck, unavoidable flapping in the breeze, “Let’s Go Brandon,” and everyone knew the message all too well.
Some averted their eyes, a few smiled, and as many gave the well known one finger salute, aware that they ought not hate the hater, but unable not do do so.
Colors, blue, red, purple cease to matter in the face of such a blatant, almost rabid effort that can only widen the rift that is slowly tearing our civilized society apart.
They strut across our lawn oblivious to our stares. The cat sits watching these large objects, birds perhaps she thinks, but nothing like those she once hunted for food when she was homeless and pregnant. She is content to sit and watch them, speaks a momentary hello, and realizing that they do not speak cat, settles down for her pre-dinner nap.
The cranes walk together as a pair, announcing themselves loudly, strolling across the lawn headed for the one yard where the sod has been torn out to allow regrading.
The equipment has paused and they take this as an invitation, stopping for a large meal at the new buffet, certain that this was done just for them and perhaps a few ibis, should they happen along.
Tomorrow this will be once again a lawn and the cranes will express their displeasure before looking for a new place to dine.
Stevie and I were probably eight sitting on the front stoop of our flat, he the only one in third grade smaller than me. There was no snow to be seen, none in the sky, none on the frozen and still patchy lawn, just the wind of an always cold December day. Christmas is coming, I said aren’t you excited, with all the gifts. Stevie smiled, they’re always great but maybe this year I’ll finally meet Santa. I laughed, lacking the heart to shatter an infantile dream. Do you buy into the sled and reindeer thing, or does he come more by way of magic. Of course it’s the sled, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it had some pretty good jet engines. And you think he comes down the chimney I asked. We don’t have one, you know that so he must use a back window, the one where I broke the lock last summer when we were spies. He looked momentarily sad, you don’t have anything like Santa, although you get lots of neat gifts, just not all at once. At least eight, most years more but you’re right we have no Santa, but we have something even better. Better how, what could be better? Each year at Passover, Elijah comes in during our Seder I don’t see him but we have to open the door for him during dinner. Does he bring you anything? He’s not like that, he just comes all old and bearded, and before you can even see him he’s gone again, probably next door at the Goldstein’s or maybe with Larry Finkel, though his mom can’t cook very well. So what’s he do, this Elijah? Not much, I admitted, but he does have a drinking problem.
First Published in Friends & Friendship Vol. 1, The Poet, 2021
Today we welcome the rain, hope that the wheaty winter lawn will show some other color under its care.
The birds ignore the clouds, accept the rain, care little how our lawn looks, their next meal of always greater importance.
I am losing the vision in one eye, know I may soon be king of the country of the blind, and sadly curse Erasmus for his gift of proverb, one that slipped off the tongue when my eye could still see it.
We will welcome the sun tomorrow or the day after, for too much rain or sun demands change and nothing is really ever wholly within our control.
They pause in their foraging in the lawn to peer up at us, strange looking interlopers, but they are used to us by now and return to the task at hand.
We no longer find them strange though we never quite get used to the curved salmon colored beaks, and we do wonder why the ancient Egyptians held them sacred.
It seems that they have never forgiven their Egyptian ancestors from affixing their head to a man, god or no god, he couldn’t find a grub if his life depended on it.
The sun slowly starts it’s daily retreat, setting the thinning clouds ablaze.
The birds return, ibis, egrets, anhinga and kite and even the limpkin march slowly across the lawn to the preserve that abuts our yard.
They take up their perches on the trees and bushes and on the limpkin’s call begin quietly to recite their evening prayers as we bow our heads in reverence to their faith that the new morning will soon dawn for us all.
an old writer and his words 