Stopping by Woods with Mr. Throttlebottom-Smith
Normally Robert Frost had the advantage of traveling alone.
Solitude permits one to contemplate the moral weight of dark woods, falling snow, and obligations yet unmet.
It does not permit a capuchin monkey named Mr. Throttlebottom-Smith to discover that snow can be packed into projectiles with astonishing speed.
The woods were white beneath the sky,
He launched a snowball at my eye.
I sought for peace, for calm, for grace—
He stuffed a pinecone in my face.
One does not own a capuchin monkey. One merely carries insurance.
###
Nature chatters. It squeaks. It argues. It pecks. It rustles. It conducts endless committee meetings among squirrels.
He climbed the harness, climbed a tree,
Declared them both his property.
He bowed as though he'd won a throne;
The horse rolled both his eyes alone.
Scientific observers describe capuchins as tool users.
Quite right.
Mr. Throttlebottom-Smith discovered that icicles make excellent conducting batons.
Every branch is a ladder. Every unattended hat deserves immediate relocation.
The woods were lovely, yes indeed;
But monkeys have a higher speed,
And I had miles before my bed,
To find my boots, my hat, my sled,
To recover dignity gone cheap,
And then perhaps, to get some sleep.
As we departed, Mr. Throttlebottom-Smith looked back toward the snowy woods with unmistakable affection.
Then he stole my scarf.
