Submitted by Nathan Bolls

The beasties, those that survived the noise and flash of the 4th of July, now are bracing for another blast of chaos during the current Holiday Season.

During these days, and during one particular day and night, crossing a busy street is even more dicey because of having to deal with an increased number of drivers whose eyes and compassions are dimmed by alcohol. A time even more dangerous that the five-times-each-week rat race to beat the time clock at work or the afternoon race of escape toward home, bar, gym, or to somewhere unadvertised.

Then comes that one time in the middle of the night, always the same night, always at the same time, when THAT song rolls out across hill and prairie from the dens of assembled humans. That song always is accompanied by much kissing and glass clinking, and sometimes with noisy fireworks. Amid this madness, many do not know, nor care about, the meaning of what they sing. Here-and-there, glass balls are made to descend to Earth. None are edible.

The rollicking party noises, and those of crashing cars, serve both to awaken animals trying to rest and to frighten prey for those night hunters searching for a meal.

Wise wild mothers surely have warned their young that the absolute worst time to be caught crossing a street is after the madness dies down, the den doors open, and cars begin to weave, “wobble, and careen” from parking lots.

What was being celebrated? Was it just a frivolous mood of wishing that next month—or year--will be better, that those mostly flippant resolutions will be pursued?

For most living organisms, tomorrow is just another day in the never-ending search for adequate food, water, and cover—and, for most, eternal vigilance against becoming someone’s lunch. Who has time to plan a party?