Wednesday, January 04, 2006

The Parable of the Boy Who Figured

Toe in, toe out. He sat awonderin. Splashin n thinkin. Figurin. The ole black thing was out there, hoppin over the water. Sometimes faster'n he was, sometimes not. It was a fair day. Yesterday his sister became dead. But it was different, it was. He might become dead some day, maybe not. No way alookin there, there wasn't.

Maybe he'd fish, n maybe he wouldn't. Thinkin bout fishin was a better thing, that he did know for certain. N certain was his favorite. So up he was, for when the time came for clappin n skippin, for roamin n inspectin, a fella had to follow. For that's what fellas were for, and on that he was sure and certain. Yes, indeed, today was a fair day.

And the road went up, and the road went down. Now there was goin to do, and a bit a comin as well. But just til when the day said, "Enough, fella. Enough." He had his trusty bag, filled with all the things a trusty bag ought to have. He had his very best stick, n bread enough for two. Weren't that a smilin thing? So ear to ground he waited for the gossipin of the stones to learn him well. N eye to sky he looked higher n the day-dim moon. He was a crafty lad.

With a jump n a leap he was off. Quieter n the witch's breath was our lad. Look twice, then look thrice and still you'd be pressed to see this lad. He had places to see, n flowers to smell n mushrooms all tasty n hankerin to eat. It was a fair day, indeed it was.

Yesterday his ma became dead. But yesterday had no hold on 'im. That's why yesterday wasn't today - oh no indeed, the very reason why. It was for the losin, not the gettin. Your feet pointed front, not back. Tho that'd be a pretty sight. N your nose was where it was. Now there's clever n there's smart, and our fella knew both.

If there was a troll, he'd smite it. If there was a fairy, he'd catch it. No ogre under any bridge was faster'n our boy. He had a tra and a la, 'n a fa dee dee. He had toes for climbin, n fingers for findin. So he ran n he ran, til the hills fell flat, n the rivers fell into yesterday. He ran til you couldn't figure day from dark. And when he stopped, it was only cause he came to the very end. There were no more road, n no more bread. N the moon became dead yesterday.

Now this was no place for a fella to be, no indeed. With no more goin, or fishin or splashin. So all that a fella could do, he did. He closed his eyes, n held his breath. N figured harder than any boy had ever figured. N when he heard the green frog croakin, smelled the butter churnin, he figured, "That's right enough, that is." So he sat by the river, toes in the water, ponderin.

By the Bay

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