I Am A Tool
I had passed her many times over the last couple of years, on my way to and from work. I'd be screaming along, ready to lose my license to the Virginia DMV just any second now, and I'd see her, and I'd have to slow down and give her love.
I travel the same roads to work every morning and night. The route heads west, into Industria, and then takes a sharp right (north), back around more Industria, Airlineia, Pillaged Farmacopia, and National Weatherolia. But on the first leg of the way in (and the last leg on the way out), at certain times of the year, chiefly Spring, when Mother Nature starts to shake out the cobwebs and get her bud on, I'd see her, and she would never fail to brighten my mood.
She's a tree.
I'd take a picture, but I never have the camera, and the tree is on a median, and I have to be honest, beyond the tree in any direction the landscape is less than photogenic. We have a Citgo on the south, just beyond a rat's nest of power lines, and yet more office park digging going on on the north. In either of the other directions: four lanes of blacktop. Much Big-Riggia. But that tree... she is a beauty. Sublimely shaped. This is the Rita Hayworth of trees.
This morning I saw her, and my heart skipped a beat. Which is normal, actually, on account of the mitral valve prolapse, but anyhoo. She's at that stage of utmost beauty, all grey and white and yellow and green. Alive.
And I thought the following. I tell you no lies:
What a perfect tree. What exquisite beauty. How full and uniform are her boughs! How did such a tree grow in a place like this? What sheer magnificence.
It's... it's... it should be...
a corporate logo.
My soul has been swallowed.
I am such a tool.
Click to share:
»Back to Whinge