OAK COUNTRY
Just near the oak tree, uncovered by a scuff, was an agate. Maybe where Montezuma's necromancer had traced thin, turquoise lines. A steady trickle of designs passed through his hand cupped like a funnel, it might have been an hourglass, and spilled out into ritual rain, followed by a thunder bolt.
Finally it actually attracted one. Fusing sand. The tingle could be felt in Arizona, next to a metal swing set.
Such distractions have never counted for much. Granted, however, the silver halide latent image, honored by chemicals, that emerges in a developing tray. Or Lapis Lazuli, with its streaks of silver enthralled, disappearing down blue intents. These were worth a pause.
What counts is oblivious concentration -- as big bee delves within a purple flower, down into that place before I was born, where time is patience. The two are often at odds. Or to yank the yin of it, patience is the end of time. If big bee could laugh . . falling into a blue begonia where discussions are moot. Words that were nectar once are made obsolete by patience. Then . . . wrapped in a blanket on a summer rock, scowling fiercely for the family Kodak, I became Chief Montezuma.
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Next morning, after writing the above, came a surprise. On the end table, set out there before Susan could have read anything (she had been thinning dead wood from our book shelf) -- a forgotten treasure: Oak&Company (ISBN 0-688-01993-5), written by Richard Mabey, illustrated by Clare Roberts.
