old monk ra

The monk went to the Park. He was used to being alone under the starlight. But tonight, he saw shapes and forms between the gaps in the trees; others, young people, he surmised, were walking this night as well. It was unusual this far past Midnight on a weeknight, but the old monk saw outlines and heard the sounds which even very light young people make when they believe they’re making no sounds. He was right. Young people in the dark, in dark clothing, walking together. Very nice; all these sweet shouting stars above were not wasted on a mere alter kaker like himself. He almost called a greeting, but no. The soft Autumn night was not for shouts. Ha! He could be a killer lurking in the grove for all these phone-zombie boychiks knew. But the old man wasn’t Death; he was only the Laird of Loki Park; a kind of cabbalistic Boo Radley who looked out for kids up way past Midnight. The old man watched the children find their garage door, then relaxed. Everyone would get home tonight. That was part of why life was good, but it didn’t answer why the fat tired old monk needed the Dark, the Night, the Moon, to wrap around himself and regenerate his possibilities. The old man was, personally, not very mysterious at all, but he needed Mystery. It was fortunate for him that there would always be plenty.

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