Admit it: you imagine a libidinous, licentious man, maybe old or aging, but never giving up on the sweet young things. Think the Playboy empire. Think drunkenness, loss of self-control, orgies revealed on Attic vases, bawdy plays following the tragedies in the City Dionysia. See half-goat, half-man, always leering.
Now see this friendly little fellow, monkish in his brown, cream, and gray garb. Like others of his family, he bounces in the grasses at Lake Cheston, the university cemetery, my yard, pausing every now and then, before bouncing off again. A wood nymph, indeed, but satyr? Hardly. 
Little Wood-satyr, today I call you Little Wood-monk. Go in peace.
No comments:
Post a Comment