Defending the Obelisk
Around three a.m., halfway down the lane leaving Spivey's farm the madness slammed me. Slammed me hard '97 like a Grand Hotel street queen, white port wine, cheap bourbon and Guinness Stout, poorly with fried chicken and baked beans. Captain Herb piloted the old Buick down back roads of madness and lunacy, towards a bitter sanctuary of dreams, dark visions defending the obelisk from a bloody coup of gun-toting rabbits.
I had yet to in fact see the rabbits, but knew they would find us before too long. Why bother with telling my two partners? They surely knew what lay ahead that night. Let them enjoy the calm while it lasted. The first mate took the helm of the Buick as Captain Herb leaned over the port door, while cruising thirty miles an hour, to purge his psychedelic gut demons on a dark and twisting Four-Mile Creek Road. Jim Beam and acid and blue indigo make for a strange trip and stranger colors streaking along a double-yellow line.
Madness and lunacy were the buzzwords of the trip down to Spivey's farm today. Opting for first watch, I was soon asleep. A twig snapped and I saw them in the mist. Twenty, maybe thirty mad hare fighters in full battle gear, wielding machine guns, tossing grenades and acting a nuisance. We scrambled to defend the obelisk. The rabbits dug in for an all night siege. Herb set out to right-flank them from the woods.
I took position near the monolith, certain they would not chance its destruction. The battle raged to no side's advantage. By dawn, silence fell and again, sleep came. I woke to the sun shining on the idol. The obelisk safe, we feasted on rabbit and never again spoke of that night.
In the Midst of the Ice Storm
At three a.m. I walk the lane again to see a shroud of limbs touching ground. Great jaws of crystal nature trapping all life, still, within the icy cloak of winter. Lights from the barn enchant the redbuds bright like a music hall crystal chandelier. How long before the weakened Ash yields to the weight of ice and sleet let alone time? Will the Red Oak, whose limbs came down last spring now fall westward and into my kitchen? And what of the Sugar Maple which now droops over my truck, frozen in the lane? Since I can do little now, I will sleep. Let ice and sleet and tree fall where they may. I will rise with the sun to survey the damage, save what I can, ignore the rest, then take to the woods where I will wander among what survived and what tumbled down.