I'm in the backyard of a country home situated on a hilly property.
Maroon fence posts with small, harmless barbed wire, line the perimeter of the property. The maroon matches that of the exterior of the home, at least the back face of it. I approach the fence and place the palms of my hands on the top of the fence post. I leap upwards, keeping my hands firmly placed on top of post, using it as the rotation point. My feet fly into the air until I and the post form a straight line shooting through the center of the earth.
I continue my momentum and flip until my feet land on the other side of the fence. The greener side, which is to say the better side. In fact, the whole of the landscape is a golden yellow. Looks like hay, wheat, straw. I'm engaged by the beauty of the place.
I throw my bag and another item, plastic, black, utilitarian, about 18 in x 24 in. I don't know why I do this, but it becomes important.
I notice two unbelievably beautiful horses trotting along. As they enter the scene at stage left, Sterling, my old roommate and best friend, enters stage right, coming from inside the house.
He's not alone. He's with plan. Plan is to storm the neighboring home, the home of one Farmer Withers, and steal some eggs. Withers is clearly just inside the home, reclined in a sofa chair, holding a rifle. I see this through the wiring of the chicken coop.
There's no dissuading Sterling, and as I run up the hill, for Withers lives atop it, the aforementioned ponies run alongside me, close enough for me to touch. I decide that I want to spend my time petting the blond horse that runs most proximally beside me. His coat is a shade darker than the grass through which we jog, the mane a few shades lighter.
I continue running, and I've been dissuaded from the more sensible option of spending the afternoon relaxing amongst my new found equine friends. I follow Sterling up a hill, he grabs two handfulls of eggs, and we run through the gate, ensuring that our doggie friends (who have since materialized-think Sirens of Titan) escape along with their loyal masters. The horses are no longer of importance, and disappear.
I trail Sterling through the gate, fumbling to shut the latch, rushed by the howls of protest and rage coming from within the home of Withers. He also fumbles to load and prepare his gun for firing, aiming either to inspire fear or do actual harm, we as yet know not which.
The gate is latched, and I enter without tribulation or hurdle the back yard of the maroon house from which we've come.
I arrive only to realize two things.
First, I've forgotten my bag and the aforementioned black plastic object. I clearly need these two items.
Second, I come to understand that Withers' weapon is nothing more than a BB gun, intended more to scare than to harm. This comforts me.
These two facts spur my action to jump the fence and retrieve my items.
I feel simultaneously an anger at and an empathy (and even melancholy) for Withers. He clearly has become resigned in doing us no harm, and will (I know) aim high when firing even the relatively harmless BB gun. We are a symbiotic pair, the defender of the house, who in his loneliness pines for his security to be breached. The storming party, in need of developing the character that defines Withers' long-gone youthful "piss-and-vinegarness," feels the need to pay their dues as youngsters, hoping to add credence to the idea that they lived once, a long time ago.
Even their actions are cyclical. The eggs that they've stolen have a single purpose. To be hucked at the home of Withers himself, the house from which they came in the first place.