the Animals 1965

I quicken my pace. Even pass Master Sgt York.
I know where I’m goin’ now.

The “lodge” and a few cabins are a little ways up the side of the hillside.
On a medium-sized “shelf”, or step.
There’s a creek runnin’ beside the complex. To the East. And the forest is denser than the Meadows “floor”.
There’s about 600 feet above to the rim of the Flattops.

The fall colors are in full splendor.
The aspens are bright yellow.
The evergreens are green of course.
But, the Meadows’ grasses and the rest of the under-foliage are awesome rich Earth-tones.
And the warm chinook of earlier springs up once again.

The ZEN of the moment is invigorating.
“CARPE DIEM” for sure.

As soon as we’re spotted, everyone starts to wave. And it’s not long but what more “soldiers” come out and join in the greeting.

I get to the edge of the open Meadow and see the trail up. It’s a little hidden, but, not entirely.
About 300 feet up lies the shelf.
It has a great view to the southwest. Overlooking the Meadows directly south, and a smaller plateau and the White River to the west.

I quicken my pace even more. Without even knowing it.

As I reach the edge of the complex, I stop for just a brief nano-second before heading straight to Wilson.

I acknowledge everyone as I pass by so as not to be rude, but, my focus is my friend.

General Maximus and Tonto are to my left. The Black Knights are right behind. Major Horowitz must’ve been standin’ on a bench. He was 2 feet above his Black Knights.

The Rossi brothers were directly behind Wilson. And Sgt. Major White and 1st Platoon were gatherin’ to my right as I walked up to Wilson.

I didn’t notice it at first – the scene. I was too intent on givin’ my buddy a hug.
But, it made sense once I picked Wilson up and gave him a big ol’ bearhug.

Because, …
although I couldn’t see him, the words came out unmistakably through clinched teeth, like a ventriloquist would do. This was because no one was supposed to hear but me. So I put “the act on” that I wasn’t being spoken to. I just smiled and showed only joy to finally see my friend.

That’s when he whispered, . . .

“We gotta get outta this place.”

BSOT
Ian

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Published by Ian

writer, neo-Impressionist photo-artist, Elliott Wave analyst & trader, existentialist

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