bobby one spur...

today, whilst toiling, a scruffy old man approached, raised his hat high, bowed, and handed me a rose. the man in question is often refered to as bobby one spur. i never call him that...well...almost never...i've just called him that, haven't i? no matter. anyway, his first name is bobby. the addition of "one spur" is supposed to indicate he is shy of a matched set. which he is. but that, i contest, is half his charm. he is well known for his eccentric endeavors. once, when the little tree outside of the liquor store brushed his hat from his head, he marched off and returned with a hatchet. spit applied to hands and handle. then right before he showed the tree what for, somebody called the law. i don't advocate punishing trees in such a fashion. a simple and indignant, "i beg your pardon!" or "i say good day!" or "of all the!" would suffice, i think. i also don't like seeing bobby punished, tho. at night he howls with the coyotes. he lounges under a cardoon or a toyon and tosspots it up a bit. nothing rambunctious. i've crossed his path in a pitch dark night many times and never felt afeared. he's more trustworthy than most. his family has been in this town since before it was a town. when everybody still spoke spanish and cattle outnumbered people.

when trash fills up the ditches or starthistle begins taking over the vacant lots, bobby picks up a spade or other appropriate implement, and removes the debris. as far as i know he does it of his own volition. and today he gifted me with a rose. he probably filched it from somebody's yard. so much the better.

hmm. odd thing is, the rose was candy-colored. pink. orange. yellow. the night is jung. and i'm making shitty puns. how's about that?