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| Nene the rare Hawaiian goose. (In her non-mythic form) |
"A melody's calling those lyrics," Nene was rocking on her hinged feet. The ruffly, jazzy mood of a rock made The Woman laugh out loud. It was a deep and mellow near-bass sound.
"You need a melody to go with those lyrics," the man grinned. "We all start out lusty. You think?" The man had set his shovel against the wobbly wire fence and was running one hand through his mostly gray beard.
"When I was nineteen I rolled my car, with two friends in it. Scared the crap out of me. Changed my life!"
"Are your friends, still friends?" The Woman asked without asking the obvious bit of the hinged question.
"They are. One of them was just visiting us. The other still lives back East, but we still ... keep in touch. Surviving something like that can bond people. Leastwise it did for me. I was lucky." The man was nodding now. Reminiscences creating that two directional flow of time, Nene appeared to him as a blurr. The man blinked and adjusted his glasses.
"What is it?" The Woman asked when she recognized the aha of connecting moments.
"I thought I saw something beside you. A big bird?" He shrugged when The Woman asked, "What color bird?"
"I'm not sure. Must be the heat," he suggested, changing the subject to the more mundane and safe. The unusual heat wave was definitely affecting the region. "They say to expect 100 degrees tomorrow. That's why I'm out here today, and won't be tomorrow."
"Good plan," The Woman capped the small jar smiling at the Mullein blossoms. "Thank you for the kind words about missing us when we leave. We aren't very good at good-byes, but being a mirror for Earth, people like me have to get used to processing good-byes."
"Hmm, never thought about it that way." The man was sincerely puzzled by the comment.
"We're responsible for the definitions we tow with us. And if we get old and rusty, but still remain lusty for life moving on is often the option that we must take. Movement keeps our hinges operating. You know what I mean?"
The flow of conversation had lost him. His shovel now in hand and his foot primed to turn another row making room for fall plants. Nene poked her long neck and beck between the wire fence and nudged at a berry still dangling. The warm temperatures suite the creamy feathered goose and berries were her favorite dessert. The Woman felt a tinge of sadness about the dangling conversation. But the yama bells remained silent. That was something.
