No rest for the wicked
All quiet.
That's about all there is to report, I'm afraid. The big long dark is upon us again, and of late I've been spending many, many hours at the main viewport, surveying my domain, searching for signs of intrusion, watching with hardened patience for a disturbance in the stillness. And in my unwavering vigilance I have only discovered that, dammit, all is well.
It is cold and solemn out there. No cats on the street. No squirrels on the fences. No rats in the ivy. No dogs signing the hydrant. No robins in the feeder-trap. No ants. Not even a mouse.
No sign of the giant masked bandit and his thugs, not for a long time now.
Only crows.
I am pleased that the beneficence of my protection has led to a safe and secure realm. It does my heart good to see a world at peace. The Man and Woman have erected their annual tribute to me, a mighty tree festooned in lights and garlands. The whole neighborhood is alight in a festival of accolades to their Munificent Protector. The soft glow of it all is pleasing, calming.
But I grow restless. It is too quiet out there. Is there nothing left to conquer? The nights pass slowly, yet I keep my steadfast watch, a solitary and unflinching sentinel, secretly wishing something would stir — yet nothing disturbs the stillness.
Only the crows — squadrons of feathered rogues to whom I conceded dominion over the skies long ago. Loud, ugly, fearless winged Shmools, who know neither peace nor rest. Not a living thing in sight, and still they circle and swoop and bellow their unanswered challenges. I salute you, you miserable magnificent bastards.
That's about all there is to report, I'm afraid. The big long dark is upon us again, and of late I've been spending many, many hours at the main viewport, surveying my domain, searching for signs of intrusion, watching with hardened patience for a disturbance in the stillness. And in my unwavering vigilance I have only discovered that, dammit, all is well.
It is cold and solemn out there. No cats on the street. No squirrels on the fences. No rats in the ivy. No dogs signing the hydrant. No robins in the feeder-trap. No ants. Not even a mouse.
No sign of the giant masked bandit and his thugs, not for a long time now.
Only crows.
I am pleased that the beneficence of my protection has led to a safe and secure realm. It does my heart good to see a world at peace. The Man and Woman have erected their annual tribute to me, a mighty tree festooned in lights and garlands. The whole neighborhood is alight in a festival of accolades to their Munificent Protector. The soft glow of it all is pleasing, calming.
But I grow restless. It is too quiet out there. Is there nothing left to conquer? The nights pass slowly, yet I keep my steadfast watch, a solitary and unflinching sentinel, secretly wishing something would stir — yet nothing disturbs the stillness.
Only the crows — squadrons of feathered rogues to whom I conceded dominion over the skies long ago. Loud, ugly, fearless winged Shmools, who know neither peace nor rest. Not a living thing in sight, and still they circle and swoop and bellow their unanswered challenges. I salute you, you miserable magnificent bastards.
so sayeth Shmool on Monday, December 12, 2005
1 Comments:
I agree with the "miserable" and "bastards" but not the "magnificent". Damn crows.
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