Terrible Analogies

The crows fell out of the sky, ignoring our angry arms and curses.  They swooped down with terrible speed, angry and determined to pull us aside and violently interrogate us about our pedestrian choice in food products.  ”If we don’t like what we hear,” they cawed in unison, “we’re going to have to take you downtown.”

They jumped on and around our picnic table.  A tribe of forgotten pygmies performing an ancient dance meant to awaken the gods for virgin sacrifice.  Loud and furious, they staked out territories and shored up borders.  The Bread tribe eyed the Hotdog tribe closely, noting the weaknesses in their defense.  Soon a scout was sent hopping over, but was pushed back by the meat-loving horde.
Stabbing at their prey, they ripped apart the thin plastic skins and exposed the soft innards.  Bread crumbs bled onto the grass.  Salty hotdog juice seeped into the earth.  The tribes screamed and flapped with feathers now soaked and covered with food.  Pacing at the fringes, the largest of the crows paused and slowly, delicately, lifted a wing towards the sky, then dipped it down into a pool of ketchup and painted a fine line across its face.  A bright red streak glowed off the polished black of its beak.  A sign of dominance.

The war-painted leader ordered his troops into the air.  With beating, thrashing wings they took flight.  Dingy, charcoal feathers pealed away from their inky silhouettes, pirouetting in the sky as they tumbled, and littered the ground around us.

The picnic table was empty.  We sat on the wet grass, hands bound, mouths gagged, stomachs empty.

I had a dream last night about a dog that was made of grass.  It looked like a cross between a Bull Terrier and a Labrador, with a squat face and pointed muzzle, and it seemed to be very happy about my presence.  It had deep expressive eye sockets, but no eyes.  On a front paw I could make out a small ring of delicate mushrooms, and hanging from its belly was a modest clutch of dandelions gone to seed.  It was circling me, wagging its grassy doggy tail and staring up at me expectantly with those dark, turfy, eyeless sockets.  Green drool was dripping from its drooping, verdant tongue and onto my white shoes, leaving behind explosive emerald Rorschach blotches.  In one I could see two whales dancing, and in another an angel performing a swan dive.

Slowly, my green shaggy friend began to change in color.  Traces of tan spread like tendrils across its body.  The grassy tail stopped wagging.  Somberly it turned away from me, and the dog made of grass walked across our perfectly manicured lawn world and through a weather-worn white wooden gate that guarded nothing in particular, where it laid down, rested its now drab muzzle on a still-green paw, and remained motionless.  Its vibrant green body had turned the color of dry wheat.  Unable to hold the shape of a dog any longer, it was now nothing more than a small pile of brown grass slowly being scattered by the flutter of the afternoon breeze.

Looking down at my stained shoes I noticed a colorful dandelion growing in the grass between my feet, gently swaying in the sunset of the dying wind.