Wednesday, May 21, 2008

~Changing seasons~

by Noah A. Bowen

The Days were slowly growing longer as the snow began to recede and the sky began to brighten. Spring had started its dainty sonata with rich greens and vivid blossom, dappled with soft sorrels and the somber grey of fleeting shadows.
The air poured golden and warm down the mountains with the rising sun, dusty shafts filtering through the twigs with merry song of waking birds and humble yawn of nestling beast.
Logs channeled the docile current of a green river, forming a confluence into a once silent pond that would now ripple and swirl up the sandy banks and to the high grasses causing whisper amongst the dreary willows and pleaching yews. The wind whistled moodily over the purple dew drops that would weep, with the solemn patter of a tear, upon the drifting lilys and silent shallows.
The season had come at last, and, as if awakened from long hibernation, Mr. Sparks stepped out from his cabin and yawned.
It was such a yawn that he seamed, as it were, to inhale the whole of the little valley and its sunny plateaus, to drink of its warmth and clarity, vivid colors and sweet aromas, voluminous crops and vivacious landscape. He peered across the plain at a small herd of deer ducking and weaving playfully through the hills and meadows. Smiling with a twinkle in his bright eyes, he turned to a little hare creeping cautiously around a fallen oak, mossy and tangled with briar, and chuckled kindly. The hare bolted to the brush sending crackling waves of rens twinkling through the sky. And what was that, with so majestic a red plume, but a cardinal, who fluttered into the sun then spiraled past the old mans head and landed gently in a crab-tree, pink blossoms bursting between its claws.
Mr. Sparks thumbed his suspenders with a sigh of relief, the cold and snow had passed and he now felt as though he could breath.
And with that he disappeared into the cabin for breakfast.

His eggs were sunny-side-up and tasted just as scrumptious as the new morning breeze.
Polishing a shiny red apple across his barreled chest, he tucked it away in the reed pouch at his side, pulled on his beaded moccasins, threw the long willow fishing pole over his shoulder and set off to the quit little brook that tumbled cold and clear from the highest peaks of the mountains for a lazy day of tranquil relaxation. He would cast his line in, under the over hanging bank, being sure so as not to catch it on one of the wayward twigs or thistles, then nuzzle against his favorite rock, lower his floppy straw hat and, letting his lids drop just a wee bit, wait for the gentle tug of Big George.
Mr. Sparks had been after Big George all of two years, ever since he had pulled him flipping and flashing pink and silver from 'neath the bank and onto shore only to have him snap his favorite pole and escape back into the babbling waters with what seamed a smirk on his big blue lips.
Mr. Sparks thought of this now as he cast into the shadowed alcove and, twisting the line about his toe and crossing his arms and lowering his hat, he was soon fast asleep against his rock, warm neath a leafless elm.

The tug came about noon, it was fast and strong, whipping the line taut about Mr. Sparks toe.
He sprang into wakefulness almost quicker than he had fallen from it and, hands at reel muttered, " I gotcha now George, I gotcha you overgrown blimp lipped son-of-a-sardine."
Again his pole bowed to the tug and Mr. Sparks started to reel; the smooth clicking, sure, sound and patient.
Then with a violent tug and loud fwap!, Mr. Sparks had him, the hook was set and the battle began.
He reeled and George tugged, the line swirled this way and that, Mr. Sparks at his feet flailing the pole like a madman.
George flipped and darted, splashing the water across the shore and fraying the currents to foaming waves that would crash and explode up Mr. Sparks' ankles. He leaped and twisted then, with one last effort, yanked and vanished down the brook jerking the pole from Mr. Sparks' hands, dragging it with him. Mr. Sparks leaped from the shallows to the bank and started off after his fleeting pole; eyes straining to focus on the thin willow wisp zipping down the current. He stumbled many times over rock, brush, tree and hill, but, determined and passionate, kept going.
It seamed like miles he had been running, when, heaving and weary, he saw the pole catch briefly on some weeds and rock. Seizing the opportunity, he pounced from the high ground upon the snagged pole and tumbling current, just as the water tore it loose. Though, with a wet and choked effort, he scrambled forward in the sloshing current and fastened his hands about its cork handle triumphantly. The water suddenly dropped into a deeper and faster rift that washed him over and under the choppy spray, but still he held on, his hat flapping viciously over his shoulder, hanging on by the strangling chin strap wound about his neck.
The white and green billows tossed him from back to belly, over the moss and through the reeds, till he came crashing through the waterlilies, sending frogs croaking left and right, then, with tantamount effect, sent him careening off a muddy shallow and into the air, flipping right into the glassy surface of a pond, which shattered, slapping rings and ripples and frothy waves to and fro throughout.
Slowly he rose to his feet, wiping mud from his eyes and cast a frustrated glance at his broken pole, snapped at the handle, still clutched in his fist. Dragging himself to the sandy shore, he fell on his face and drifted into a deep tired sleep.

He awoke to a pleasant humming some hours later.
The dragonflies seemed to dance with the sunflowers to its peaceful prose and the meadow took on a tranquil silence. He rose weary and beaten to his knees and looked to the sun.
Orange, pink, violet and golden pastel painted the sky with heavenly hue, even the clouds, frayed and warm, were fringed in a soft green glow, the sun itself a fiery red polka-dot, slowly sinking behind the blue silhouette of the mountains. Mr. Sparks again heard the humming and, rising to his feet, looked down the glimmering shore.
The petite figure of a woman meandered across the golden sands, a string of fish at her hip and a rod over her shoulder. Mr. Sparks quickly smoothed his hair and brushed his trousers, then, remembering his manners, re-strapped his loose suspender and lowered his humble green eyes.
Her hair fell wavy down her shoulders, grey and well kept, the sleeves of her purple blouse were pushed to her elbows and her eyes shown with a certain luster, like polished pebbled touched with a blue frost. There were five fish at her side, one especially big, a hook hanging from his gaping blue lips.
Mr. Sparks shuffled his feet and looked up at her.
"I see you caught Big George..."
She smiled with a twinkle in her eye that he recognized having felt in his own, and he knew, summer was on the horizon.


'that one guy'

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