Ipsum Novus

Soft snores stirred to a quiet, and the face – firm and fiery, of many a protest against man’s folly – broke into a naughty smile. Freshly-brewed coffee won’t fail me now.

Anyway, the mischief seemed pardoned by the promise of hearty breakfast.

Pulling on worn rubber boots, Doc Mike rubbed his fingers, lured by the soil.

Under an indigo sky, he walked to his garden, the smell of the earth, tingling his nostrils. He swirled someplace else, when time had no name. When stars streaked shimmering across smog-less skies. Where trees – big and small – towered free, until its last ring, nourished by the travels of streams.

A honk shattered the unraveling indigo. A neighbor’s dog trotted out from the gumamela patch, trampling the pechay lot. Not much today, but crushed leaves and Billy-goat weeds. He smiled, knowing he could do something about it.

Soon, there will be more. And went to work. The Billy-Goats soon joined the compost.

He then filled the watering can from a blue drum and began his rounds, double-checking for any missed mound. In a week or so, the Romaine lettuce seeds will break free from the ground.

He peered at his watch then turned on the radio for folk music. The radio crackled on a small stand. It was too early for folk music and he settled for the early morning news.

The anchor was rambling about theft on the rise, then segued to a forest fire. A spike in fuel prices, next. By the time the anchor began on empty rice warehouses, he dialed the volume down. He might yet catch Willie Nelson’s yodel later.

Good old Willie was a survivor, and he liked that.

He rested on a bench and thought of tasks he might have missed. A school requested for pine seedlings. They were ready for the school’s pick-up at nine.

Next on air, an exclusive with a Farming Official. The day’s protest done, he turned the radio off in the fading darkness, and started for home.

The snores will be stirred into wakefulness by bacon, sunny-side up, sausages and kinirug.