DEATH DOUSED

The hawk perched on a blackened limb, surveying the burnt-out forest landscape, its piercing eyes searching for some small animal that would indicate a possible meal.  Nothing moved.  Obviously there would be no sustenance here, and so, slowly spreading its wings, the hawk soared off toward more promising territories.  A slight wind stirred up some of the ash on the ground, and from a distance could be heard a cracking sound as a small limb snapped off and fell to the ground.  Since the wildfire, all was dull gray and black, a lifeless scene that stretched monotonously toward the horizon where it was matched by the dark clouds that had gathered overhead today.  A drop of rain fell into the ash, and then another and another.  Soon there were rivulets of gray water running in various directions, exposing some of the earth beneath.  And if the hawk had still been perched on the branch, something below might have caught its attention – a tiny green seedling, just poking through the soil and now exposed as some of the ash floated away.   Death had been doused with the power of life.

NO TIME

Max was in a real rush, cursing himself that he had slept through his alarm, on this morning of all mornings!  He didn’t dare be late for the meeting with his top clients – too much was at stake.   Sprinting from the park-and-ride lot toward the train, he didn’t make his usual stop at the newsstand to buy a paper.  All he did was shout backward at the vendor, “no time today!” as he raced on.  The vendor, paper in hand, shook his head, and then suddenly froze.  As Max dashed across the street, intent on reading some text message on his cell phone, he never noticed the car that came hurtling through the intersection trying to beat the red light.  There was a sickening thump, and then a limp form sprawled awkwardly on the pavement.   Some bystanders hurried to the scene to help, but one of them who bent over the form shook his head.   Max was obviously beyond any help.  The newsstand vendor, still frozen in place, murmured to himself, “He was right.  He had no time today.”

RIVER ROCK

Catherine had driven past the rock shop countless times without ever stopping, but today she had the urge to see if there might be something there to highlight her new decorating scheme.  On entering, she noticed a bin labeled “river rocks” and stopped to take a closer look.  One particular piece of pinkish gray granite with veins of green and black caught her attention.  I wonder, she thought, what distant mountain birthed this stone, how it was washed out of the ground by spring rains and whether it plummeted over a waterfall as it made its way down the river , tumbled over and over until it was finally plucked out of the water and landed in this shop.  Still pondering the convoluted natural path the stone had taken to present itself to her, she went to pay the man at the cash register, intrigued by her find.  “Like that rock?”  he asked.  “My grinding machine does a great job!”

GARDEN COMPETITORS

Beneath the whispering of the garden’s green leaves in the warm summer breeze could be heard some low but very distinct voices.  Said the radish proudly to itself, “how perfectly round I am!”  Said the turnip to the radish, “That’s nothing.  See how much bigger I am than you!”  And the turnip turned purple on top swelling itself up, while the tiny radish blushed red in shame.  Said the carrot to the turnip, “You are so superficial!  I have a much deeper personality than you!”  And the carrot turned bright orange from its strenuous efforts to penetrate the earth, while the turnip turned pale on the bottom as it perceived its status slipping.  Finally there came a muffled voice from deep in the ground:   “You all are too proud!   I’m content to be just what I am – dull brown with bumps and blemishes  all over.  I only hope to be a delight to children when I am peeled, sliced and fried French style.”   The other roots were silent, while the leaves in the garden above turned even greener with envy.  They all knew who would prove to be most popular on the dinner table.

AT THE BUS STOP

I was taking the city bus home – not because I wanted to, but because I had no car at the time.  Feeling poor and anticipating a long, hot walk to my apartment once I reached my bus stop, I was roused from self-pitying thoughts as I observed a woman and her little daughter get off the bus at their stop.  The mother had to re-enter the bus a couple of times to pick up all the bags of groceries she had stashed behind the bus driver’s seat.   Then through the window I saw her set down the last of the bags on the pile she had made on the sidewalk.  Turning to her daughter, who was only about three years old, she slipped the handles of her bulky black purse over the child’s neck, so that the purse hung on her like a cumbersome necklace.   Slowly the mother gathered up the bulging bags of groceries in both hands, and the two trudged off down the sidewalk together, each bearing the burden of the other.  Somehow, my own walk home from the bus stop that day didn’t seem so long.