EMPEROR OF EVERYTHING

Rainy day yesterday, doin' wordwork inside the house upstairs, went down to tweak the fire, straightened up with gaze outside and saw the Emperor of Everything promenading in majestic privacy on the grounds of his vast estate. This morning he had chosen to stroll along a slope of land used by one of his human subjects as the paddy across the road from our house, which is also on imperial land.

Earlier I had seen a member of his large harem hurrying along the same place, almost invisible against the grass, pecking up seeds for breakfast, nowhere in sight now, harems don't usually hang too close around the emperor. They may be invisible in the landscape, but the ruler in his imperial robes, now at their impeccable finest, straight from the winter cleaners, were shockingly gaudy against the dun of the wintered weeds, the general slovenliness of the pre-Spring landscape, but first impressions are a big point for an emperor. There he stood in majestic solitude on the paddy slope, peering cautiously everywhere, now and then carefully lifting his head just above the verge to see if maybe there were any big usurpers up there before he went any further, took him 5 minutes to take a step.

He was built to be nervous and no wonder, being so majestic and so in charge of all this territory, his harem and everything that that entails, he can't even bend down to peck up a seed or two as he clearly wants to (and did, when he was young), starting many times over to bend down to partake of that waiting lusciousness scattered at his feet that is his own to enjoy, that nature provides at this time of year, but he never did, all the while I watched; he just couldn't do it, something else always caught at his electric attention. Clearly there are a lot of somethings when you're that high up in the hierarchy of everything; when you're this wealthy, this responsible, this plump and so apparently tasty while dressed in raiment as beacony as a Vegas casino, you have a lifetime of enemies in the grass and in the sky, where every shadow, every slightest sound, every bit of breeze, is a wing of evil, a claw drawing nearer, a hiss of imminence...

Since he's just standing there trembling with desire to move or just peck at the ground like a mere mortal, I get my binoculars and focus for detail, see he has a dark blonde punk low Mohican do atop his purple headpiece, with bloodred cheeks around a piercing golden eye centered with darkest onyx that takes in all the light, the purple headpiece gradually diffracting into an imperial emerald waistcoat sleekly fashioned of tiny feathers, then come skintight purplish stockings and the wings and tails you gotta see them, speckled with flashing, glowing colors, fanning at certain times into peerless displays that merely human emperors have in vain attempted to replicate in their feeble wish to be the equal of this one and only Imperator who walks alone today upon his lands and will brook no substitutes; just look in those eyes and behold implacable authority, so long as you don't surprise his majesty and step outside...