An Orb of Beaverwood

My mind meandered as I walked in the park. Below me, a tiny creek gurgled its way to the ocean. How many Americans could correctly answer this question: where is this creek ultimately flowing? I’d guess less than 30 percent. But they all know who played Captain Kirk or who won the Super Bowl.

It was early morning and cold. I looked down to the creek as I always do, checking out the crazy Daffy ducks and praying for the stray choice cut of beaverwood.

Something golden in color and round in shape, roughly the size of a bowling ball, bobbled in the current. It was blocked by a downed tree. I stopped and stared hard at it.

It couldn’t be! Yet I knew it was because I am the world’s leading authority on the subject. It was a choice cut of Oregon beaverwood gnawed into a preposterous shape by one of my bucktoothed friends.

It could vanish any moment down the creek if the current shifted. The horror! The horror!

I had to possess it! I had to add it my new collection that is gradually taking over my writing studio and bedroom. Am I the only person in America, or the world for that matter, whose principle interior decorating scheme is displaying choice cuts of beaverwood? Yes! Yes! Yes!

I clambered down the bank. Brambles whipsawed my chest and thighs. I stood on the log corralling my sacred treasure. I took several steps on the log’s slick surface. I used another piece of beaverwood the length and girth of a golf club, to guide the treasure to shore. I reached down to pick it up. Oh the glory! It was no mere choice cut. The word orb instantly came to mind. A beaverwood orb with divine powers of revelation! I would display it in my studio under a soft light and ask all manner of advice of it. It would reveal everything I needed to know about improving my frustrated life in the big city.