A light northerly wind blew gently over undulating hills green with possibility, and just a touch of envy. The day was bright, with a spring in its step and still full of hope, at least according to the pileated woodpeckers, whose sun dances had finally begun to show results: a clear cerulean sky, bar the odd wisp of cirrus floating way up above the no-fly zone, greeted an emotionally challenged, technologically unchallenged world divided into amorphous arrays of multiplication and long division.
On this fine day His Majesty King-Kong of the World awoke feeling fine, ready to face a hostile dominion with aplomb. After all, today was the Sabbath of Lord Mordecai of Suq-ash-Shuyukh, and a crack squadron of The Royal Wedge of Trumpeter Swans had been winging its way westwards as he slumbered.
The swans had touched down on schedule, and in perfect formation, on the East Lawn of Bai-rang Mahal, the Royal Palace, to trumpet triumphantly last night’s territorial gains through the open windows of the Royal Bedchamber – and His Majesty had cajoled his kaajol’d eyelids open to the tune of the crack of noon and a concerto of concerted honks.
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