Mitchell smiled as he pulled a long-handled flathead shovel from out of his F-150, recently painted a deep blue emblazoned with ochre Mitchell Landscaping Incorporated on its side along with phone number and website.

The ground gave way.  Springtime in Colorado, however brief it could be, successfully softened terra firma enough to allow early planting.  His seeds were planted a few short months ago.

nothing to do with the story, but thanks Karen for the critique.

Cattle moving from pasture to pasture.  Sheep pen to pen.  Sheep would do it, bleating their way over a cliff if necessary.  Not horses.  Never horses.  Too much drudgery for a horse.  A horse would refuse to move, not out of stubbornness, but sanity.

Gate number 27 was gate number three.  JFK had hijacked him for nearly three extra hours than he could handle.  Mitchell, redheaded with the aid of a quick temper and sour outlook, had a tolerance level running zero extra hours. His sandy red turned auburn by blood boiling at the base of his brain, Mitchell kept quiet for fear of getting the boot out of JFK and never reaching DIA.

Out loud, enough for him and the gate attendants to overhear.

Three freakin’ hours.  Three freakin’ hours.  Mother Fu…

The plaintive stares of gate attendants, AKA the humorless trio, stopped Mitchell’s muttering cold.  Loathing though he was of false profanity, he decided to stick with “freakin’,” as no one can butt you from JFK for freakin’ for freakin’ sakes,.

Gate 9 was the Chicago substitute Cincinnati.  The single stop.

Gate 39 was the Denver substitute Dallas.  The nonstop.

Gate 27’s scrolling L.E.D. led the cattle, ordinary Herefords all of them, to believe the herd’s destiny was actually Denver.  Truly, really Denver.  Home.

Mitchell que’d with the rest, another link of a chain in a serpentine pattern borne from too many displayed airport refugees throughout this day of intermittent storms crossing the great Midwest. The velvet red ropes (how old school elegant – ran out of the modern plastic black) and the airline’s stanchions moved to those in line’s desire, nary an attendant bold enough to jump into the corral amongst the angry cattle to straighten it out military-style.

He was now – after a brief stop, half step, slide luggage, repeat again and again for only 27 minutes – next in line.  The bitching, spewing from the Barbara Bushy impersonatress currently full throttle steaming at the counter, was at least entertaining.

I’ve been in this terminal since noon!

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