The buglers

It’s a quiet life up here on the hillside. Steeped in it, knowing no other, the mature value the familiar features of their overly stable world. Comfort is in the ordinary, expecting no better comes with age.

Maintained sameness in the picturesque scene delivers the same monotony as does the bleak one.

Youth, however, is not that easily satisfied, susceptible to deviation and aberration when tedium settles. They must consider themselves the gift of the world, deserving change and stimulation as a tree right.

That must be the reason for those juveniles on the hill breaking our cherished, eternal forest silence with their bugling and trumpeting. What a calamity! What is the world coming to? Good that the grandparents are no longer here to witness the horrendous break with tradition.

Could they not be satisfied with slow stretching of an elegant limb? Quiver trees are not into music. Did their mothers not make that clear when they were saplings? Brass instruments may be the forerunner to drums. And where would we all be then?