December 2001: The Green Morning

           Whenthesunsethecrouchedbythepathandcookedasmallsupperandlistenedtothefirecrackwhileheputthefoodinhismouthandchewedthoughtfully.Ithadbeenadaynotunlikethirtyothers,withmanyneatholesduginthedawnhours,seedsdroppedin,andwaterbroughtfromthebrightcanals.Now,withanironwearinessinhisslightbody,helayandwatchedtheskycolorfromonedarknesstoanother.

           HisnamewasBenjaminDriscoll,andhewasthirty-oneyearsold.AndthethingthatbewantedwasMarsgrowngreenandtallwithtreesandfoliage,producingair,moreair,growinglargerwitheachseason;treestocoolthetownsintheboilingsummer,treestoholdbackthewinterwinds.Thereweresomanythingsatreecoulddo:addcolor,provideshade,dropfruit,orbecomeachildren’splayground,awholeskyuniversetoclimbandhangfrom;anarchitectureoffoodandpleasure,thatwasatree.Butmostofallthetreeswoulddistillanicyairforthelungs,andagentlerustlingfortheearwhenyoulaynightsinyoursnowybedandweregentledtosleepbythesound.

           Helaylisteningtothedarkearthgatheritself,waitingforthesun,fortherainsthathadn’tcomeyet.Hiseartotheground,hecouldhearthefeetoftheyearsaheadmovingatadistance,andheimaginedtheseedshehadplacedtodaysproutingupwithgreenandtakingholdonthesky,pushingoutbranchafterbranch,untilMarswasanafternoonforest,Marswasashiningorchard.