The atomic bugs are out, filling the dark forest with stars. Flashing their brilliant atomic glow with yellow uranium, green plutonium and in their final stages before their tiny melt downs, blood red einsteinium. On rare occasions, like tonight, there is a Coblat-60, burning a cool blue as he ditthers about, checking on all the others. Sleek and sexy, but not pretentious, the coblat blues make the rounds.
The tall, tall grass is a heaven for them in the still summer air. Only the throaty frogs sound in the night.
The hot tub is still as a mirror, reflecting the flash of the atomic bugs. I count their signals thinking, 'How cool would it be if they only flashed in primary number sequence?'
Flash, Flash, Flash
Flash, Flash, Flash, Flash, Flash
Flash, Flash, Flash, Flash, Flash, Flash, Flash
Flash, Flash, Flash, Flash, Flash, Flash, Flash, Flash, Flash, Flash, Flash
and so on until the last guy is a strobe light in a Soho disco.
This is a neat thought until one Uranium Bug starts flashing 4. Thanks pal!
Or he might have been flashing 1031 real fast...
I was at the point were the temp is right and I don't want to get out but my fingers are looking like something from a Star Trek episode, the one where the salt vampire falls in love with Bones. Really, Kirk gets some every episode and the once time DeForest Kelly gets his share it's monster made up of sun-dried cat turds with Tic Tacs and Chickletts for teeth. I would have kicked my agent in the stones for that one, but I digress...
Time to get out of the hot tub. So I have a lantern going, a little mood lighting, and I pick up the lantern and low and behold, not ten feet from me is Hemingway munching away on something he found on the deck.
So, I sit back down and soak some more, like I need an excuse. I don't want to disturb the little guy's dinner, that would be rude. I check on him every few minutes and he looks up at me, then goes back to eating.
So I look up and watch the Atomic Bugs, serenading them with Billy Joel.
Gotta call from an old friend, we used to be real close.
Said he couldn't go on the American way.
I finally look back and Hemingway has made it back to the forest, his plate clean.
It is the Shire. All are welcome.