Cricket Writer

The Swim to Oblivion.

A New Archer
Is Called Forth
To Preserve Creation.

Missive Seventy-Two
By Ebenezer Baldwin Bowles
August 29, 2002, at 0900 hours CDT.
Beaver, Oklahoma, USA

A deep sigh, a wearied heave of the chest and no illusion, no quick fix to the wounded ambitions that fell in the sawdust of a business gone bad.

A look back, sharp and calculated, through the lens of Memory, which peers toward an episode that is suddenly shrouded and made not seeable by a sense of knowingness and disillusion.

A crooked tilt of a head, a man's head whose eyes are closed, purposefully, to aid his recall of the lost venue, how it looked behind the steel door and asphalt quadrangle in the place without windows.

How could he selfishly ask any of the Others for relief when the battle rages everywhere, when all souls who come before him are fully engaged in their own private warfare? What does the becalmed demeanor conceal?

A hundred thousand ripples swim upon the olive surface of a pond in No Man's Land, swim beside grey fallen limbs of the cottonwood and hackberry, swim toward a reedy bank into oblivion.

A hundred thousand more emerge from the seldom-explored region beneath the life-rich waters to replace the disappeared ones.

Some strange thing is dead behind the climbing arrow. It died on a hunt gone sour, which becomes the hunt not seeable behind the shroud.

On the dunes beside the olive pond in No Man's Land, a new archer was called forth by the thunder. He was summoned from Maheonox inside the mountain. He was instructed to launch the new arrow, and he has complied. The aim is to preserve the right order of creation. The arrow flies, ceases to be his arrow, becomes all of ours now. The arrow climbs into the blue sky space. It soars headlong into the Zephyr.

sometime. Maybe.
Once I wrote
according to a formal deadline.
It worked well enough.
Now I glide in presumptuous luxury,
awaiting communion with a Muse.
She has a name and I know it.

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| ©2002 by David Ebenezer Baldwin Bowles |
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