Rat-Tat Tat Many years ago I had a friend Who used to go with me to a pond Where we would sit quietly and throw pebbles And watch the ripples spread As we thought about life, The universe, And everything. Through the years our paths diverged, Then finally crossed again. He still throws pebbles, Now from a cliff by the sea, But in a high-tech way That is not at all quiet. "The machinegun," he explains, "Has a worse public image than it deserves. Like any other tool it is neither good nor evil in itself But only an extension of its user. Its peaceful uses are not as glamorous as John Wayne movies Or cops-and-robbers But they are there Even though you never hear about them. His gun was mounted near the cliff edge Aimed out over the sea. Safety was no problem: The rocks discouraged bathers and boaters, And there were warning signs all around, And he was just strange enough That people avoided his place anyway. He would sit there in the twilight As the last red of the sunset faded, And send all the cares of the day Arcing out over the water. The sound filled his entire being, Leaving no room for worries. Tension faded with the echoes Until all was at peace. He especially liked tracers. If he aimed slightly upward They would hang briefly in the sky Like his own private stars. He could imagine them as worlds Where time flowed differently And eons of history passed In what to us were seconds. He would see things in the patterns: Sometimes inspirations and ideas And solutions to knotty problems, Other times memories, or new visions of his inner being. Then he could let the tumult cease, And as the hour grew late sit quietly Absorbing the sounds of the waves And of the night. Thomas G. Digby entered 0100hr 10/18/84 format 13:49 12/22/2001