The chase ended with a young male suspect shot dead in the woods near our home.  

The grove likely appeared to the young perp as good cover, but instead proved to be the next to final trap.  I will make no judgement as to his destination.  Surrounded, but evidently not surrendered, bullets ripped and punctured his body into corpsedom.

Timely death knows no schedule, nor honors turn of event.

I mow the grove often.  In local lexicon we live in what’s called ‘Green Country’, and that reference is borne of powerful spring and summer thunder showers which nourish hay fields we cut short and call lawns.  From May through September us Oklahoman’s cut the field grass to lawn length often; every 6 days or so at the peak growing season, lest a two acre task become a full days chore.

The Husqvarna fired up and roared to life beneath me with enough authority to let me know it was up to the morning quest for manicured, green acres.  Movement settles the addled mind and as I headed out toward the grove on the back of the property the drone of 27 horsepower rocked me and the machine along uneven ground performing the magic of calming my restless, grasping mind.  I picked a line on which to enter the grove and set my sights on a pattern which appeared as a mental terrain map I would use to efficiently mow around and through the stand of trees on the eastern end of our property.  Slowed thoughts coalesced as the machine adroitly sluiced tall grass out the chute.  Amusement found it’s way in as I realized Silva, my last name, is Portuguese for ‘a stand of lush green trees’.  We affectionately call this area ‘Hook’s Grove’ for mom and Dave’s last name but it could very well be called ‘Hook’s Silva’.  I chugged along on the orange tractor, my face halved into a smirk, feeling pretty smart relative to my little word play epiphany.

On my second pass around the south end of the stand  I saw the shirt.  Gray, with blue and white stripes, long sleeve, western style and full of holes; stained holes —- could this be?  I mean seriously, there’s no way Pryor’s finest would leave such a thing behind, right?  My noggin made a helluva’ u-turn from amused to bemused… and as I yanked the wheel the lawn tractor lurched, twisted and re-directed in kind.  As is typical, I simply brushed the thoughts aside with hope that imagination and reason would cease being in conflict and guided the 48″ mower deck over to destroy and disburse the disturbing garment.  As the deck sucked the shirt under the front lip the motor groaned, I felt a whomp, heard a whump, then some squealing and finally a backfired stall for the mower could not digest the striped cotton meal handed to it.  So much for moving beyond my foolish folly regarding the shirt and the dead guy.  The catalyst of calamitous thinking was now wrapped around the center blade and bound to one of the outboard blades.  Some disassembly required.

To be continued.