A Fable

Weasel and the Ponce were having a confab under the chinaberry tree, in the shade of the dusty old tree— pious Weasel, indefatigable Ponce. Abroad in the land were pickings to be had, marks beyond measure, fat aplenty for tooth and hand. Will and cunning are the clean, bright edges of a creature in the wild, of a vigorous man, so that goodness finds sustenance, charity nurture, in quietude, in quietude within. The nose will relate to you a world, a world entire, from the merest trace of wind— the topography of weakness, gold in a river’s sand. And there they sniffed, sniffed and with hooded eye conspired, in the shadows thrown by the dusty old tree. Trading knowledge, whetting tools, they made ready for their necessary enterprise, the fate nature bestowed. All the while drinking in each other’s aspect: they found uncommon pleasure there, did Weasel and his friend, in the other’s smile and guise, as a young girl in flattering light, as a darling young girl by her reflection might— the two of them, lovely beyond compare in the shade of the chinaberry tree. Groomed, laved with blandishment, almost gilded in the hours afternoon turns to evening and evening, stealthily, to night, how would they have noticed the rustle in the thicket, felt the heat of its burning eyes?