There are in Elf and Fairy’s world two types of time. They are perpendicular to each other: real time and imaginary time. A mathematician would tell you that some roots are real and some are imaginary and when they appear together, that’s what makes them complex. Some of these interesting roots are real and equal, and they are called double roots. It is in similar roots that Fairy and Elf live.
The indifferent mole.
Last night Elf forgot to pull the curtains - so giddy was he, after the late and unusual spring monsoon. This was Mother Nature’s gift to all those who still weed by hand, and he, for one, was honored. In the early morning he opened the window to watch Venus rising and after, he went out on the deck to cherish the sun coming up the hill, gilding the eastern Santa Monica Mountains. Something moved in the vegetable garden. It was a mole, a little brown runt of a creature brazenly eating the rocket Fairy raised from seed.
“Go away,” he shouted, “Am-scray.” The mole, caring nothing for Pig Latin, gave an indifferent glance and took another bite.
Elf flew up in a fury and when his wings sodden damp with the dew wouldn’t lift, he found himself reduced to brandishing his arms about like a mere mortal man. Only then would the mole descend down into the dark earth beneath the violets.
At breakfast, Fairy asked him curiously what in the world he was shouting at in the early hours.
On the table was a bowl of wind-ravaged roses, oriental poppies and dill.
“Do you suppose moles are deaf? I know they are blind. He was rude and arrogant and just thinking of himself until I dashed at him.”
Fairy offered Elf a thick rasher of bacon. The indifferent mole.
Last night Elf forgot to pull the curtains - so giddy was he, after the late and unusual spring monsoon. This was Mother Nature’s gift to all those who still weed by hand, and he, for one, was honored. In the early morning he opened the window to watch Venus rising and after, he went out on the deck to cherish the sun coming up the hill, gilding the eastern Santa Monica Mountains. Something moved in the vegetable garden. It was a mole, a little brown runt of a creature brazenly eating the rocket Fairy raised from seed.
“Go away,” he shouted, “Am-scray.” The mole, caring nothing for Pig Latin, gave an indifferent glance and took another bite.
Elf flew up in a fury and when his wings sodden damp with the dew wouldn’t lift, he found himself reduced to brandishing his arms about like a mere mortal man. Only then would the mole descend down into the dark earth beneath the violets.
At breakfast, Fairy asked him curiously what in the world he was shouting at in the early hours.
On the table was a bowl of wind-ravaged roses, oriental poppies and dill.
“Do you suppose moles are deaf? I know they are blind. He was rude and arrogant and just thinking of himself until I dashed at him.”
“Why?” Asked Fairy meditatively, “didn’t you bless him with a moving spell?
In some corner of the heavenly garden we’ll spend eternity growing the flower combinations we forgot.
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