Insolence in Autumn

It was a warm day in autumn.

Leaves fell like sweat from a blacksmith’s brow. Fiery like the flames in which he formed the tools men would take to war.

War.

Why now?

Why again?

Why is it that peace seems to inspire such boredom in all but learn-ed men? Meanwhile, war inspires great industry in all.

All but me.

For what could be better than the sweet gurgle of the stream over rocks? The flap of wings as birds take flight over barren trees. The rustle of four-legged critters in the leaves and grass.

In the distance, I can hear Mother calling. That meek but desperate calling that says play time is over and housework must begin.

I think she will have to fetch me, though.

I shall sit right here with the rabbits and leave my ears on mute.