Peace & War

It was early in the morning, Saturday, as I looked toward the skies early light, the rockets red glare and the war was still there.
I turned the knob on the tiller and checked the oil; it was fine; I poured some gas into the empty gas tank. I took out a wrench and turned the spark plug loose. I looked at the plug and it looked fine, I wire brushed it anyway. I took a little of the dullness out of it and made it looked polished and clean. I screwed the plug back into the tiller as a tomahawk missile flew toward the horizon. I chocked the tiller and pulled on the cord, the tiller gave a chug and started to fire, I pulled out the throttle and push in the choke and the engine fired up. I thought I heard some rumbling out on the horizon.
I squeezed the trigger and the tiller moved forward, the tines dug into the soil. I moved the tiller toward the center of the garden. I was going to cultivate from the center out in a long rectangle. From the edges of my peripheral hearing I could barely here a woman wailing as they dragged her dead son off the playing field.
The birds had come back to the feeders while I was busy tilling; they paid me no mind.
The Goldfinch's have gone elsewhere, the blackbirds and sparrows have replaced them.
I am hot and the garden is tilled for the second time this year, it is time to fill my sinkhole with rocks. I get the small ride on mower ready, it fires first lick. I get the wagon hooked up to it as cannon fire roars across the skies. I move the tractor and wagon over to the rock pile that is on the edge of my driveway. As I shovel the gravel into the wagon I can hear the footsteps of marching soldiers. I assume they are down by the highway. I am hot and I go into the house to rest up a little. I sit, I watch the news, a war is raging, I turn the dial and soft mood music splashes across the speakers. Our cat Peaches rubs up against my pant leg, the water is cool, it is peaceful; I can hear a helicopter coming toward our house they fly over every day.
The sounds of war are gone, is it peace or death that I hear?
Sand is blowing hard against the glass door.
I am peaceful; there is a war raging
I am peaceful, young men are dying
Sand is blowing hard against the glass door.
The sounds of war are gone, is it peace or death that I hear?

 Gollum is learning the meaning of ....

badaba

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