At one-o’clock I run with Snow-Hare above and below the frozen tundra in Northern Alaska, and I’m touched by the wonder and awe at each tunnel rising when welcomed by the majestic blues and greens and playful dance of Aurora Borealis.
At two-o’clock I befriend Field Mouse as he challenges two children to a staring contest: buying time to contemplate why the young maiden appears mousey and the young lad looks rather ratty. And why is there no light in their eyes, no smile on their faces, and what made them so solemn and numb? Are they not a thousand times taller than he? Why do they feel so unblessed?
At three-o’clock I perch beside Sparrow on the singing wire running off the man-made tree to the age-obscured stone of the homo-sapiens hives known as “projects.” And we watch a rag-tag band of urchins – what Sparrow heard peacock humans call them – as they frolic in an unlawful stream of water in an effort to beat the heat.
At four-o’clock I accompany Great Gray Wolf, an Alpha male, as he gazes upon an unusual gathering of clan women from civilized tribes. Each woman is adorned in ritual attire and bears tokens, small totems, and masks befitting their clans. And there is joy in their eyes, magic in their songs, and enough love for all in the Circle of Life.
At five-o’clock Eagle and I soar on thermals high over a once familiar Baltic region, now scarred and scorched with a barrage of lead volleys and explosive concussions. A growing collection of bodies litter landmarks and bathe Mother Earth in blood.
At six-o’clock I hang upside-down in the rafter shadows of a bombed-out inn with a wounded bat losing his life-sustaining blood, and grip, while watching four GIs tear-up as a comrade tickles the ivory of an out-of-tune piano.
At seven-o’clock I slowly regain consciousness and realize a herd of humans are gawking at me through a fenced enclosure, and a waft of air brings a whiff of Baboon.
At eight-o’clock I swim naked with Talapia in flood-waters near Bangladesh as his school play catch me if you can with malnourished fisher-folk balancing precariously on bamboo stands casting and retrieving their nets.
At nine-o’clock I stand in a cool eddy with Bear at the mouth of a creek connected to Old Man River, where Sock-eye veer off on the last leg of their journey to ancestral spawning grounds.
At ten-o’clock I am Toro, and I feel the penetrating pain of steel reminders of two matadors I gored since forced into the Barcelona arena as a cruel joke and alleged sport for the inhumane throng of humanity. And while the next “macho man” attempts to stare me down with confidence over a one-sided game of slaughter, I promise myself, before I die this day; I’ll castrate the two-legged son of a sow!
At eleven-o’clock I know no stress as I romp with Otter on a snowy slope east of crystal water swelling behind Beaver’s dam.
At twelve-o’clock I celebrate life with the sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch… of woman.
I am content.
Tick-tock… tick-tock… tick-tock…
© JW Thomas