The Garden Catastrophe

I had just finished planting my last row of eggplant when it appeared;
an insignificant smudge at first within the powdery blue of morning sky.
Then, bigger and bigger it became as it descended in more or less stately fall.
Approaching to within ten feet, it bobbed powerfully, beating massive leather-like
wings and huffing like an old car engine on its last pathetic spasms of spark and cough.
It created mini dust devils in the dry-as-dust garden bed, ruffling the turnip markers
as well as the outrageous horse radish leaves at the front of the very first row.

I would be less than truthful if I said I had no inclination to flee to my house
in a panic, to lock all doors and cower in shiver--that urge was most keen.
Yet the situation was oddly compelling in the face of primeval instinct.
A flying, long-bodied dragon of sorts--(I refer to him as a dragon
for simplicity sake and because it seems appropriate),
hovering in otherworldly perspicacity above my
garden and me, piquing my curiosity.
And with fear grating on the nape
of the need to know, I was there
to protect my garden.

“Where do you come from?” I asked, not really expecting an answer.
He turned his head and drew back his jowls to expose bone-white teeth,
yet I did not sense any anger or threat, but instead I sensed devilment, as if
it was a game to him, with me and my garden his final step in an initiation.
He descended slowly, wings gulping in mini thunders, slaps of wind
battering vine and tomato stake and me, my cap lost to the force.
I braced myself against the metal gate, shook my head and
raised my arms and wiggled my hands as if hinged,
like I had magical powers to halt his descent.
“No, no,” I cried, but it did no good, and like a purple
excursion module, he landed in the middle of my garden.

Our eyes met, and the sparkle of green in his was a challenge.
I extended my hands, palms outward in both plea and question.
Alas, it was for naught, for with sharp-tipped wings he began the dig,
uprooting row upon row of seedlings, ousting carrot, leveling lettuce.
I could only watch helplessly as my garden became his playpen.
And with each expiration of dragon breath, I expected fire,
but that was not the case.  He seemed rather content
as dragon tiller, smirking, disrupting vegetables.

36 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
June 23, 2013