WHAT IT IS
It was a simple image on a calendar– the July photo of a heron eating a fish –that opened the flood gates of this alien mind to occupy territory having no boundaries, no solutions and no agreements. This pain in the abattoir, this torture in the lobster pot, the 303 almost to the heart, the harvester ripping up fertile soil that we pray, not religiously, will sustain the clan long enough until someone emerges whose self interest is diminished a thousand fold and is the possessor of that rare quality not yet revealed. Of course, they argue that possessor is all of us, that it lies dormant at the bottom of the heron’s pond awaiting its awakening. The infliction of pain is the cornerstone by which all things can be measured and no matter what lofty goals are rained down upon us, it is with great difficulty that we can escape this simple truth, although many are skilled in the avoidance.
Hobbson saw himself in the image. Was he fish or heron, or perhaps just flotsam drifting around the pond watching the drama unfold and keeping his head down? Much of Hobbson’s journey on this earth was a mistake, a series of events that unfolded with him occupying a space that vacillated between comedy and tragedy. Today he hoped to change all that and as Slim opened his office door to greet Hobbson, the Jesus drive that sat on the floor beside Hobbson, purred softly.
WHAT IT IS NOT
Sapphire’s mission was a serious one, but when she spotted a great blue heron fishing on the edge of a swamp, the cameras came out and she and Cricket began a covert-op toward the bird. There were plenty of birds around that day, especially chickadees who seemed intent on buzzing around the heads of the two photographers. Undeterred, the two got the photographs they came for, but the chickadee silence filled the air as Melena Schulz and her ragged sidekick, handguns drawn, walked out of the bush.
No words were spoken, exaggerated gestures instructed Sapphire and Cricket down a narrow path, through an open meadow and back to another path. They walked slowly in single file with Schulz at the end of the troupe in a constant hyper vigilant state, her eyes darting from side to side and head swaying forwards and back. They crossed by a white fountain; birds were drinking. Sapphire noticed a man, Drake Johnstone, crouched down beside a large rock. The parade kept moving.
Shots rang out from all directions. It looked like Schulz’s partner was hit in the shoulder, but Sapphire and Cricket were hustled out of harms way by Jessica Potts so quickly they couldn’t be sure of what really happened.