May in the mountains was monsoon season. We have gone from two years of drought to drenching, soaking rain. The grass reaches knee level in two days. Fecundity has reached a new level. I’m glad that I am no longer a breeder because all this green moisture feels like the genesis of a new tribe stirring in the universal womb.
What harm? We need a new tribe, a bunch of folks who aren’t out to play king of the mountain or to argue over who can have the bombs, the biggest and baddest of toys. There has to be a better way to use our time here on earth. The newbies will know.
For one thing, the new tribe will honor wrinkles as marks of wisdom and find them beautiful. They will scratch their heads in confusion when they find ancestral skeletons with squishy blobs of non biodegradable material wrapped among the gnarled dried muscles of the face and ribs and slug-shaped plastic where lips once were.
I want to apologize to the future folk. I’m not sure what went wrong with my American tribe, why they got so silly and vain. Maybe we basked too long in the benefits of the sweat of our forebears and forgot to grow up. Bad guys got in there while we were building MacMansions and trying to have tighter abs.
Somebody tell us what to do. Help, not enough life boats to go around. Rich and richer first, then we’ll see what we can do about the men, women and children.
I’m ranting but can’t help it. Pluto and Uranus are having a field day while Saturn and Jupiter duke it out over who’s in charge. The June moon is full and hovers in a cloudy werewolf sky. Ah-oooo.
