Mood:
hug meTopic: "Deep and Dark" (5)
When the Gardens of the Shire were new, it was merely an open deck which extended into a back yard. After several renovations, and the passage of time, it is now a window-enclosed elevated room which reaches out at tree-top level into the native growth that flowers below. A kerosene heater burns brightly at this time of year, while the ceiling fan sits idle, awaiting its next call to action. Frodo can turn his chair inward and watch the news or the athlete who strives for broadcast perfection. But with a light coating of snow and bone-chilling temperatures outside, it is tempting to stand and peer into the darkness endlessly, looking for signs of movement and shimmers of life in the darkness of winter.
Frodo had noticed a ghostlike apparition whipping in the snares of a hickory tree days ago, and had at first believed it to be the corpse of a kite. Closer examination revealed it to be a plastic shopping bag, caught halfway up in the nakedness of the arboreal, too far for the Frodo of today to climb and secure. Frodo knew that, with time, ever-present, the bag would eventually disappear and plague him no more. He was struck however, by the fact that the bag was already gone, and appeared to be moving, of its own power, atop the horse-fence which encircles the Shire.
An intrepid squirrel, perhaps looking to add substance to the structure which sheltered his small family, had the bag in paw, and was dragging it along the fence, in the direction of shelter. Unfortunately, the wind was whipping mercilessly, and had penetrated the opening of the bag. The parachute thus created was pulling the squirrel in the exactly opposing direction intended. Frodo smiled and called to Sam to come and watch the struggle in the snow-lit darkness. Fiona and Mick, the Wonder Dog, followed and peered through the windows thinking that something wonderful must be at hand.
Eventually, the struggle below disappeared over the side of the fence and out-of-view. Before long Frodo was alone again, and his mind wandered to the poetry of Robert Frost, New England's champion in Frodo's assessment of those who can create dreams from mere words. The woods were indeed dark and deep, and had reminded Frodo that moments like this are left behind all too quickly.
On this morn Frodo noted the plastic bag, once again flapping in the breeze of the hickory tree. Perhaps Act II, Scene I, will take place when the wind dies down and the harvest of nest insulation can proceed unabated. That much effort should never be denied.
