As our scene opens, it is a sweet spring night in the woods of northern
central Massachusetts. The swampy woods flanking the Sargent-Colburn
house are alive with frog music, a vast collection of one-note songs,
sung over and over again all night long in clashing, ancient ballads.
The sky is ablaze with stars.The moon is a mere sharp-tipped sliver
overhead, and Venus hangs beneath it like a tiny white-hot drop that
has fallen from the lower point. The still leafless branches stir in
the breeze, and an angry chickadee chirps a note or three of protest
to mark the distrubance of his warm-feathered night's rest.

In the access road, paved with the broken litter of last year's leaves
and good gritty New England sand, there is a tractor. A 1966 John Deere
Model 1020 with a front loading bucket. It sits, cold and massive,
looking like some sort of prehistoric industrial green dinosaur. The
ground beneath it is stained small dark spots where oil, and hydraulic
fluids have seeped from it. It is all iron curves and girders
suggesting massive strength, and great endurance. It will need both
this night. It has work to do.

From the front of the small, snug house there is a gentle slap from the
screen door, and two shadow ferrets streak across the front yard and
head for the access road. They weave their way between a stand of high
bush blueberry canes, slowing for a monment, then come out into the
broad plain of the access road itself and take shelter by one massive
rear wheel of the tractor.

The male drops a single key from his mouth onto the sand, he has been
carrying it's rusted metal ring in his teeth. He wipes his mouth with
one darkly furred paw and says in a tightly controlled, angry voice
"OK. Arrow Ranch Aviation, Mechanicsville, Virginia. Let's go get him."

"Check," says the small, glowering female. Her angry glare could slash
an unsuspecting hoomin like a razor.

The male picks the key's ring back up in his teeth, lifting it from the
sand gently with a single claw so he doesn't get a mouth full. Once he
has a good grip on it he begins the climb up the enormous rear wheel.
The small female follows, and the pre-flight count-down begins. Key
in ignition....gearshift in Neutral...ferrets securely in the yellow
flight seat. The key is turned, and the night is shattered by the
grinding cry of the starter motor. Small birds wake in terror, and
scatter into the underbrush. The cold greasy heart of the beast leaps
into life with a blast of hot exhaust gasses, and the great machine
vibrates in place, engine cycling...warming up....

Alexandra in MA

[Posted in FML 5586]