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On Brook Street, it
happens twice a year:
chandeliers begins imperceptible
shaking...windows, a most
delicate rattling...to the West:
great clouds of dust are rising,
...low rumblings builds to
thunderous roaring...ground
commences indisputable shaking
..yes, unmistakable sound of...
Brookline's beeches stampeding
down Beacon!
Usually the most docile of herds,
gentle giants grazing through
seasons, laughing as children
swing on their trunks, carve initials,
and play hiding-go-seek under leafy
green skirts.
They bide their time with pachydermal
patence, budging for neither winter nor
summer, so contented they are that no fences
are needed. The Town Fathers assure us: "Tiny
Longwood Park is entirely sufficent"... until
those knotty, kind eyes fix on
that sign:
"POLICE TAKE NOTICE: NO BALL PLAYING,
NO RUNNING, NO NOISE, NO PICNICING."
That's it. They're off!
Thunder claps rattle the windows.
Sirens scream toward Beacon.
The round-up begins, and peace
returns to an orderly town.
May, 1992