Busby saw the contrails as an encrypted message inscribed across the snowy cloud banks, blossoms really…the sharp edge advancing mightily, the arrow evaporating into blue emptiness, the joy of going forward without being anchored to any simple hope. Busby, Busby, such a dreamer. To fill an ideal day with beautiful thought, nothing wrong there. Truth was nobody much cared what Busby Wright did on a holiday, sitting on a soft hillock in a backyard all his own…shared of course with the neighborhood animals, bugs galore in summer and in winter where did all those bees and hornets go: Uncle Jake pointed out that perhaps migration was a distinct likelihood. Uncle Peter joked and said that bugs went underground and drove around in little cars made of acorn shells, skidding around tunnels and corners. Sometimes they collided into each other. Of course they wore their tiny seatbelts and were in the best of humor about their mistakes. Nobody mad at anybody…but if things got really out of hand they were taken by beetle cops to the King & Queen’s court, which by the way was safely “ensconced” deep within this hillock. Uncle Peter had read a lot of dusty books, and his head turned all the way around at midnight. It happened so fast, the blur made ordinary people think maybe a gnat flew in and blurred their vision with a tear. Uncle Jake said it was a good lesson to learn, namely, too much reading fills your pumpkin with weird seeds.
Uncle Peter said, Uncle Jake’s just saying that ‘cause he has no imagination, so he can’t see the bugs in winter busily shopping, driving along their four-lane major travel arteries. The cool exit ramps, the little gas stations where they polish their acorn shells to make them slide easier round those pebbly corners…Lord, there were so many architectural wonders under this very hillock…and Busby watched the fading arrow overhead wondering, is this another clue?