BECK N ME: Seasoning

BY JACK CROSSWELL
Without a sound, she came down from the hills to the barn.  Her hiking shoes left studded tracks in the dirt.  She had been careful not to walk on the grass. 
“Climbed to the peak of Horse Heaven Mountain,” Lori Meadows said as she wiped her forehead with the back of her hand.  “It reminded me of Wordsworth writing poetry about the Midlands of England.”
“He wrote most of it while visiting Italy,” said Beck, my ole Missouri mule.  “Why go to the top of Horse Heaven Mountain?”
“Fall is upon us,” Lori said.  “I took a last look at nature before the season changes.”
“It changes every year,” said Old Blue Rosenbloom. 
“Yes,” Lori said, “but I talked to the plants.  Soon they will be grieving over the loss of summer.”
Ratchet Arnold said, “Never heard of plants grieving.”
“When the leaves turn,” said Lori, “the trees are crying.  They know winter is ahead.  Dropping leaves is their way of shedding tears.  Like some human tears, tree tears can be beautiful.”
“That’s why the leaf peepers will be driving through our mountains,” Coy McRoberts said.
“I hope they do,” Greg Sayers said.  “I’m running a special on hearing aids for leaf peepers who want to hear trees.”
“I talk to all the plants,” she said, “not only trees.  I hear the maples weeping when Claude Davis steals their sap for syrup.  The grass cries out when Bucky Linkous mows it for hay.”
“Such a gift,” said the mule, “must come from a Celtic background.”
“All the way from Stonehenge,” Lori said.  “My ancestors helped with the stonework.  They found a site that wouldn’t disturb the trees.  It made a wonderful tourist attraction for the Brits.”
Buster Blossom said, “Maybelle, my wife, says … ‘poems are written by fools like me…while only God can make a tree…’”
“She’s a big woman,” mumbled No Fenders McGee.
A retired lawman and journalist, and published novelist, Jack Crosswell lives in Cripple Creek.