Trees

Today I enjoyed a few hours in the company of good friend, Debbie.  As we scuttled about town foraging for food, I had a few reflective moments.    On a shady, quiet street I sat and watched the trees sway in a gentle summer breeze.  I'd forgotten how much I have always loved trees.  Joyce Kilmer's poem came to mind.  I can't remember why I opened the refrigerator door but I remember a poem by Joyce Kilmer.  Memory is a mysterious thing.

Now, my old friend, Joyce wasn't a poet who wrote complicated poems.  He focused on God and nature and quite frankly compared to some poetic big guns, this guy sounds  like a Hallmark card, an overly sentimental one.  So why, on a beautiful summer day, while watching trees dance with the breeze, do I think of this?

I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest

Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,

And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear

A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,

But only God can make a tree.

Maybe I'm easily pleased by simple poetic rhythms.

So, there, waiting for friend, Debbie, I took my Just 10 time and sat enjoying the trees.  The breeze turned the leaves movement into music.   Filled with appreciation for these stately, green living things, I was amazed by how unique each tree is.  They are like people that way.    Something soon shattered my revelry.  My peaceful moments, remembering sappy poets and getting in touch with some ancient Druid-tree-worshiping tendencies were gone.  The "Interceptor" had arrived.

"Interceptor" is the word that is printed in large letters on the bumper of the meter person's tiny car.  It's a cartoon car.  So it's no surprise when Malibu Barbie pops out.    This young woman, whose resemblance to  Malibu Barbie was quite striking, jumps out of the Interceptor and writes out a ticket.  She tucks in under the wiper blades of an older compact station wagon.  Bouncing back in her tiny car, with a perky wave of her ponytail, she exits stage left.  She narrowly misses the return of the car's driver.  Fortunately for me, I did not miss his return.

At first, I only see his back.  There is much pacing, lots of opening and closing of doors.  I notice something in the back seat of the car.  It's large, stretched out and covered with a blue sheet or tarp.  I note that it's too lumpy for a body.  Trying to guess what else it might be was not easy.  I settled for several folding chairs or a body.  It was so much more exciting that way.   My main character was still opening and closing doors and windows.  There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to my long-haired male's frenzied activity.    At last, he turns to face me.  His shirt hangs open.  His hairy stomach screams a hello.  

Another character arrives on the scene.  An older woman, apparently his mother, strolls into the frame.  He complains about the ticket.  She tells him they only had 20 minutes on the meter.  He gives her the ticket and goes back to his opening and closing of doors.  Finally, he seems to find the thing for which he has searched, the rare and elusive, screwdriver.  He quickly unscrews the license plate  on the back of the car and swaps it out for a new one.

What is he trying to hide, his identity, the body?  Friend, Debbie returns.  I forget about the scene unfolding just across the street.  We are in the car and heading away, when I suddenly remember that I don't know how this story ends.  I look back.  The car with its interesting characters and cargo are gone.  Only the trees remain, moving with the breeze, waiting for the next drama to unfold beneath them.