They Came from the East, well, Twelve Houses down . . .

It was such a night, so black that the stars took over and used the whole sky to play in, when they appeared. Dogs going crazy, seven shadowy threats in a tight pack, looming in the dark, staring as I peeked around the shade on my glass front door.

You must have the wrong home, I say. No, we came for the poet. I turn on the light and open the door.  Two adults hover in the back with four kids in the foreground. The third adult, the mother I assume, tells them to step forward.  We brought you flowers.

Snippets and pinched stems of bougainvillea, lantana, flowers from the Crown of Thorns and plumeria are pushed into my hands.  We picked them ourselves.  Thank you, I say, wondering if neighbors will miss them, though I‘ve noticed most go from front door to garage to car and back the same way.

Just as I invite them inside, one spies the waterfall in the backyard, so I walk them through our just-finished-dinner-and-paused-movie evening and show them the pond, goldfish rising to the surface from the sudden switch of a light.

Can I eat a fish?  the youngest blond says.  I think back to the raccoon family, mom and dad and the twins, who used to hop the fence and try to do that from the water’s edge. Ah, no, I can’t let you eat my friends, I quietly state.

Tonight, I think was a reminder of the wisdom of innocence and how ignorance so closely bonds with truth.  Children speak from purity and need and ask questions because their picture of the world is fuzzy.  They want answers to the story of life.  I did, still do and hope they keep asking and never stop.

Though, I think to be practical, and for their own protection (the fish), I’ll not allow any fishing poles, hooks or bobbers into my backyard for any young fisherman who might be having the inspiration of improving a new skill.