Royal Feast by Steve Prusky

At this oasis desert park, just inside the far edge of man‘s domain, the Mountain Big Horns trust implicitly.

The rams, their curled horns rippled crowns of sovereignty, nobly descend the rock strewn wash to file up on the black asphalt cul-de-sac below. The procession parades resplendent in their molted summer coats stained desert beige. Their padded hooves tap our house lined pavement like battle weary, yet still alert cavalry. Just past the rise off Patti Lane, early morning sprinklers dust off chaste July heat, greening the festal meadow prior to their regal feast . They’ll graze ‘till noon, aloof as royalty on foreign soil; honored guests immune from threat or harm.

These monarchs pasture on the north lawn no man’s land, a cautious distance from the park accoutrements we claim. From our barrack tennis courts we ever present sentries of the swings and slides are kin to ‘at the ready’ palace guards at attention when they arrive. On our watch no coyot’ packs creep up in surprise, no famished mountain lion lurks too close, no hunter’s bullet strikes its mark, no thirst or famine occurs. The tree-lined boundary of this verdant desert realm sanctifies these kings, we lowly commoners and surfs.

By noon, high mountain Sirens wail enticing songs in company with symphonies of blustery Mojave Desert winds. Lyrics from the charming nymphs beguile our lords to familiar, cooler craggy heights; their nocturnal empire sleepless vigilance, cunning predators, moonless night.

© 2011 Steve Prusky

Steve writes, works and live in Las Vegas. His work has appeared in Foundling Review, The Whistling Fire, Orion headless, The Legendary and others. He is a form Pushcart Prize nominee. His collection of past published works can be found at http://sprusky.blog.com/

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