The Gargoyle

The Gargoyle                                                                                                   

 

I watch the men from up on high. Humans all, though scurrying back and forth you could mistake them for mice. Such hurried creatures. As if the world itself is afire.

It seems so, sometimes. In the dawnlight and sometimes at dusk. From up here the brilliant amber rays strike straight and true from the heavens. The church I adorn ponders sometimes, whether or not these are signs of damnation or rapture. I can hear the reverent admonitions from the open shutters nearby.

I wonder if the hurrying mice below look up at the sunset. They are so far down I do not know if they can see it.

I have visitors sometimes. Feathered ones. They perch upon my granite skin gingerly, as though afraid their talons will offend me. I do not mind. Nor do I when they change my grey to white. It is of no consequence. The rain comes, eventually. I am glad for their company. It gets lonely up here.

Below they measure time differently than I do. Calendars to mark the days. I can see a great ironwork clock in the distance over the rooftops with strange human numerals upon it. Sometimes down upon the pavement I spy a monocled or top-hatted gent withdraw a sparkling silver or gold pocketwatch. My eyes are very good though I cannot see what irks them so to leap about at the passage of time, as though it slips through their fingers. Like sand does within an hourglass.

I know the days and I know the night. The sun is either risen or set.

I know the seasons too, bright and sunny, or dank and frigid. The snows come and blanket me and the landscape alike. Though, I suppose, I am a part of it.

On clear days when it is the cold season, I see the children afar upon the frozen pond. They whirl and dance across the ice in a way that makes my stonework feel as light as a feather. I do not feel as men do, you see, but the sight makes me content in a way.

Last year there were no children upon the lake. Instead the men came. The dark men, made of iron and carrying their long guns. Dark because there is a look to them. A violence. Quiet but sure, lurking below the surface. Even the scared, trembling ones.

They line the streets below. Some ride around in metal carriages, on loud clanking tracks belching smoke. They are noisy and crude, guttural. They scare away my visitors.

In the distance the sun rises, flaring. But not from where it should be, and only for a moment.  Seconds later, roaring booms meet my cold ears. I do not know what is happening.

Far buildings look scarred and broken in the dawn light when it does come. With every proceeding day, the line of ruins approaches after a night of thunder and fire. The men below move and race with even greater frenzy, their machines in greater numbers and with more haste.

The border of where stone is crumbled and went draws closer. I can see it clearly now, just blocks away.

I hope the children return to the lake soon. If not them, perhaps my birds.

It gets lonely up here.