39 Horses My Mom Loved ONLINE
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Merry Making: A Sylvan Green

The tea jar clambered awkwardly toward the grass-haired surface, an acne painted teenager unwillingly approaching his great aunt's out-stretched arms.

"My Mr. Hodgsons," Rodger's voice was kitten's fur carressing the nerves of his inner ear, "there's far more natural ways of returning nutrients to the earth. No matter, it'll take nothing more than an alteration in the alignment of my vertebral tube, and a deft maneuver involving my left-most arm and hand, no mention necessary of the wrist or elvow, to have this matter recalibrated to its original sorts. Let us be also thankful for that most fore-thinking inventor of lids that screw." As the procedure was carried out, a thin whistle emanated from the center of the table.

"Ye Gods! What chronologically thrifty punctuality!? Had I dallied any longer in ending this capricious caper, precious seconds would have turned to vapor rather than retaining their fluidity and adding length to our tea!" The limits of Rodger's lips timidly crept towards his hair in modest recognition of his bold achievement.

Instinctively, Rodger's right hand crept over the doily illuminating the kerosene lamp and removed the steaming teapot from its summit. Carefully holding the pot aloft, he turned down the kerosene output of the lamp. Unscrewing the top of the rescued jar with his left hand, he tensely removed two tea bags and placed them into tiny ceramic cups; one in front of Mr. Hodgsons, the other in front of himself. Reverent, so as not to spill and cause any more unwanted emotional turmoil, he poured the water into the cups.

"There now Mr. Hodgsons, have you ever witnessed a truer shade of tea?"

Mr. Hodgsons saw only what buttons see.

"I can't encourage myself other than to exuberantly agree! There is nothing so fulfilling and lifelike as to gasp and surrender oneself to the clear, boisterous tranquility of tamed nature. Listen Hodgson, quietly now, feel the breath of the spirits upon that stomach of yours. Horns and fog conceal not so much as this verbally guided stillness reveals when steeped within the soul. Why should mammoth feet fall triumphantly upon the face of our surroundings? It's temperament shall keep still, incubating within the egg of my chest. Why wasn't it Isley who said..."

As the sun set, the leaves hung their ceramic tips, birds ceased their flitting, while a chpmunk chattered on a hill among the clamor of the pale sylvan green.