Wednesday, February 4, 2009

178th part 2

The Summer dew nestles, shines and twinkles like dripping stars and clear diamonds on the morning flora. Plump blackberries hang precariously from their green bonds, dipping down to kiss the tall, golden grasses entrenched in the ground, awaiting to stand like soldiers giving full the commanding, mid-day sun. He peers through the guardian wall of soft pines at the border of his back yard, his hands cusp—one on the right, the other on the left, at ear-level. Peeking his head through and careful to watch for spider webs, he steps beyond the protected borders into the field. There are reptiles there, beyond the field and in the woods. Big reptiles. “There’s Brontosauruses,” he once quipped. “No there’s not,” his older brother had said. He had stopped walking toward the woods and remained silent, pondering the authority of his only sibling, two years his elder.

But there are Brontosauruses here. At least there once was. And maybe they’re still in there, somewhere, buried in the dirt. Didn’t brother say they found dinosaur bones on the shore of the Lake one day? They had brought them back and showed them to little brother; and Dad was there. “Look!” they said. And there they were—bones. Bones with jagged edges, teeth, and strange contours, and shapes that conjured images of jaws, legs, and ribs. “Those are just cow bones,” Dad had said. Upon hearing this, a great weight formed in his chest and sunk down into an oblivion, dissipating and draining down through his bowels, running like molasses, descending his veins, as they carried the disenchantment of non-discovery down and away from him, never to be felt again. And that was that. The world was too real.

But there are Brontosauruses here. And least there once was. And he will find them. The morning sky in the east rises above the small ridge ahead and gleefully glows upon the hills to the west, each tree basking in the glory of summer, waking from night’s slumber to the eager chirping and fluttering of robins, cardinals, and sparrows. There’s the bleat and caw of the black birds and crows, disturbing the bliss of the peaceful dawn with their craggy calls.

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