It Was a Grey and Drizzly Day...

The late-autumn leaves were dripping rainwater onto the soggy ground, and the air was chill. The leaves were just leaves – brown, yellow, a rare russet – and the rainwater was just...rainwater. Wet and cold. No symbolism involved.

The squirrels, undeterred by the wet and the chill (because this was North Carolina, and hibernation was a waste of time, it might be warm tomorrow), were romping up and down the tree trunks, which were dark against the grey day because they were, well, wet. An occasional bird (not that birds are occasional, but there were fewer of them around this time of year) chirped angrily in the branches, letting the crows know that this was its tree, bug off. A rangy black-and-white dog had slipped its leash and was inspecting the underbrush, heedless of the impatient calls of its (unseen) human companion. In short, it was November, and seekers of romaniticism should look elsewhere, such as Baltimore, because bleak though it might be, nothing in particular was going to happen. Even those crows weren't going to say anything – not 'Nevermore', not 'Bye, Bye, Buy Bonds', not even 'Chew Mail Pouch Tobacco'. They were likely to steal your lunch, though, if you left a sandwich around where they could find it.

Down in the valley, on the other side of the line of power pylons, the grass was still green and well-mown, as landscapers in this part of the world were thick on the manicured ground. For one thing, the community college system did one thing very well, and that one thing was to teach landscaping. Its graduate gardeners beautified Washington, DC, and the National Park System. A golf course in North Carolina (even a public one, with a $5 daily greens fee) was a wonder to behold. For another thing, workers from Mexico needed something to do, and a riding mower and trailer made a good investment. Self-employment avoided some of the unpleasantness of the Green Card business, as well – what Homeland Security thought about the yard business was not yet on record. As it was raining lightly – and it was not a Monday – no landscapers were to be seen (nor their leaf blowers heard) on the grassy sward, merely determined joggers, making their way damply along the ribbon of paved path near the treeline, water-bottles on hips, earbuds sparing the passerby shared musical experience, possibly painful. So the valley was not only visually sparse, but quiet, as well.

The keen observer...well, let's be clear. There were no keen observers. Most honest folk were either at work, provided they were fortunate enough to be employed in this shabby economy, or inside their dwellings, making use of artificial heat and light to avoid the dreariness outside and connect with the greater world by means of television or the internet. The lone, desultory observer, his senses dulled by boredom, lack of employment, and a recent lunch of grilled cheese and potato crisps, sat on a folding chair in his enclosed porch and surveyed the landscape with satisfaction.

'Here,' he thought to himself (he was under the impression that his thoughts were real things, and counted), 'is a piece of space/time. No cyberreality. No philosophical speculations on the metasystem. No ventures into the yetzirah or the Platonic world of the shadow-dancers. Just a piece of space/time.' This musing caused him to experience what he was thinking of (because he was being Pretentious) as a moment of existential calm.

Across the valley, he could see lights from the windows of houses. People must be home there, people must need light to see, people must be doing something. The sight reminded him of a poem by Bertholt Brecht (which made him realise that he was being Pretentious, because he was thinking of Brecht, but he completed the thought, anyway). Brecht's poem was about the way in which smoke from a chimney changed the meaning of a landscape. That wasn't symbolic, or supernatural. The old realist merely meant that people were a part of where they lived.

The lazy man decided to leave it at that. He wasn't conceited enough to think he was the only observer here – besides the possibility that the maintenance man might find it necessary to walk behind the buildings, and might notice that stray dog ($25 fines were threatened, but never enforced), there were watchers enough to share the moment with him: two noisy squirrels, a bird, dressed for the occasion, and the sleepy little mop-dog at his feet, should he care to open an eye or cock a floppy ear.

If the light across the way gave meaning to the grey landscape, so, perhaps, did the call of the crow. Was the tree holding up the crow, or the crow the tree...?

This made him think of Bishop Berkeley, so he thought he'd better quit, before he went from Pretentious to Downright Ridiculous.

A Tale of a Tail

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzip!

Fliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiip!

Heh-heh. Bet you didn't see that one coming, eh? I'm faster than a speeding bullet, me...heard that somewhere. Must be from inside the 'partments, come summer they're noisy.

I pick stuff up, y'know.? You just think I'm an airhead. I'm no space cadet.
Boiiiiiiiiiiiiiing! See that? Now ain't that Olympic form? Round and round the tree branch, don't fall off once. Didn't even have to practice that move. It just came to me, y'know? The secret's in the tail. You think all that fluff's just there for pretty? Goan.

I love bark...no, not bark-ING. Dumb doggie-doggie, bark your fool head off, you're on a leash and you can't catch me, I'm up the bark on a tree, and you're barking up the wrong tree...heh-heh...cos I jumped, you see...see me fly, my, oh my. Heh-heh.

Bark-bark...smooth bark, rough bark, flaky bark...what's that you say? I ain't flaky. Flaky's my cousin Jer over by the pond. He fell in. Made the ducks laugh, quack, quack...hey lookit, watch me...up the trunk, thick branch, thin branch, little branch, think I can't stand on a twig?

I can stand on a twig. For a nanosecond, anyway...aaaaaaaaaaand....JUMP.
Wow. Sometimes I even amaze myself. Bluuuuuuuuuurp! That's me being amazed at myself.

What's it all about, Alfie? Nuts.

Nuts, seeds, whateveryoucallem. Gotta have 'em. Gotta eat 'em. Gotta gnawgnawgnaw....an' iffen I don't, pard-ner, me tooth-uls'll grow too fast. Sad, that, when the tooth-uls grow too fast, gettin' long in the tooth? Nah, not me. I'm a gnaw-deer. Gnaw-dear. Get it? Heh-heh.

Call me a tree-rat, would ya? Polititickal IN-correctness. Go wash out yer mout'.

Uh-uh. Miss Bossy Britches is out on her porch. Black cat. Pointy ears. Atty-tude. Lots of atty-tude. She looks at a feller, y'know? Like...if this porch wasn't screened-in, you'd be breakfast. Or lunch. HUH. I'll show her. Watch my fancy footwork...

Up the tree. Down the tree. Just to head height, you understand.

Looooooooooook her in the eye, Miss Bossy Britches Kittycat. Now here comes the good part....waaaaaaaaait for it...At one and the same time (ain't I amazing?) I....

Rotate my bee-YEW-tee-full flooffy tail in a clockwise manner, making complete circles...betcha can't do that, kitty, kitty, betcha betcha...aaaaaaaaaand....let out my earth-shattering, world-challenging war cry...

KkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkekkkkkkkkkKK!

Okay. It can only be heard three feet away. So what? A fella can dream. You ain't Tarzan in the shower, buddy-boy?

One more fliiip of my gorgeous Best Feature, and I'm off back to the nest with the tasty pinecone. Can't have my pinecones, Bossy Cat. Mine, mine, all miiiine...

I ain't greedy. I just want 'em all. Iffen I can't eat 'em, I hides 'em. Heh-heh.

What's that you say? No. I ain't got it written down on Post-Its. Silly. Can't write. No thumbs. Can't read, neither. It's all up here. (TAPS NOGGIN.) What...? You think I ? Just find 'em? By H'ACCIDENT? How dare you? (AGITATED TWITCHIN' OF B.F.)

Ho-kay. It's a fair cop. But sshhhh...don't tell anybody, okay? I gotta reputation to uphold. Dignity and like that. Whatever. Heh-heh.

Yawn. Sun goin' down, sleepy sun, sleepy me...back to the nest again, snug as a bug in a rug when he dug...tell me a bedtime story. Tell me about what it's gonna be like when I'm full, an' fat'n'sassy, and it gets cold, an' I go find someplace to hide, an' just drift off to sleep f'r'while...

See ya next springtime!

Yaaaaawn....so long, suckers! See yez in the funny papers!