08 August 2017

Postcard 98

A Ranger checks in: Control one, 804 (ait, ohe, foar) Shoreline along the shore. The tide's coming in high today. The waves are chewing on the stones I fear. I fear they will rip the children away.
Control one: 804, the hills are aflame. The trees are popping like corn.
Control one (trembling): Let's all go home
Ranger: Oh no. Do not get panick crisp and hard with fear. With packs of dogs unleashed, with troops of derelicts, these commons are mine. I'm good. Well, hardly good, but here. In heavy oiled boots I stride long and light. With a broom a brush a spade I cut tight and sweet.
Control One: You are still out there. Are you still there? Do you remain, but why?
Ranger: Seeing each far slow drawn horizon, each move I make is an arc scribed perfect and complete. Control,  the earth beneath me evaporates, but if I stand or move is each as empty and complete as each season changed.
Control: But why persist? Go on?
Ranger: The slow falling trees cast shadow and leaf. The weeds push blossom and germinate seed. The sea pounds stone and pier to sand like bleached white shell; the sea in tide and wave encroaches, sours wells, and my empty actions are the song I sing. I am a ranger, so I range

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