July 4 Celebration
Last evening, long before the sky was dark, the sounds of explosions began—coming from all directions. I was sitting on my front porch, smoking a cigar. Cannons to the left of me, cannons to the right of me, cannons in front of me volleyed and thundered.
A fawn sprinted from behind my house, and fled into the pasture. It circled the acreage, several times. Finally the doe appeared, and summoned the fawn to her side. Then the two of them together cautiously circled the pasture, never approaching any of its fences. The tree line seemed an obvious refuge, but the loudest and most frequent explosions were coming from that direction. The sky was blinking above them. Smoky lights flashed in all directions. I eventually lost sight of them, once darkness had fully set in.
The celebratory sounds of war continued for a while longer, then ceased before I went off to bed.
When morning came, there were no columns of smoke, no burning structures. All my neighbors homes seemed as peaceful as ever. When I was a boy, and then again when my son was a boy, setting off fireworks seemed like a wondrous thing to do. In my dotage, I have lost my enthusiasm for celebrating with intentional explosions. I suppose it is similar in its profligate abandon to the massive bonfires of more ancient days.
Bob