Chicken Little

So I was expecting another scorcher today – blazing sun, dustbowl conditions, an SPF 500 sort of experience – when I heard an unfamiliar pitter patter against my window pane.

What could it be?

Something was dropping from the sky. Like Chicken Little, I went running through the house yelling that the sky was falling.

Then I recalled fairy tales from my long-ago youth, rumors really, that I heard sitting at the knee of my great, great grandmother. Recalling stories she had heard when not much older than  the wide-eyed tot absorbing her own words like a kitten lapping up milk from a bowl, she recounted these myths. She told tales of wetness that fell from the clouds above and soaked the hard, crusted earth. The drops fell as individuals but worked together to create puddles and mud and turn the grass green and encourage the flowers stand up tall and proud.

These moist alien invaders from space were welcome and regular visitors. Bringing bounty to the land, which first filled the larders and pantries and root cellars and eventually the bellies of the people.

After recalling these legends of intruders from the sky called RANE, I doubted these tall tales as a mental creation – a dream saga of a senile old woman.

I then called Homeland Security to alert them of a potential terrorist invasion from above.

I feel so much safer now.

3 responses to “Chicken Little

  1. You aren’t right.
    Want to go out on a date?

  2. you really aren’t right, which is just one more reason why I’m crazy about you and your pal, NC.

  3. Do two “not rights” make a left?

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