Sunrise

Just before sunrise, everything is horizontal. Bands of color: orange, yellow, blue, and dark ribbons of cloud. This is the world, not whatever fabrication. The thing itself. It's overpowering. A simple sunrise reduces me to tears. I need to hit the firewood pretty hard today, but I don't want to over-extend myself, I set modest goals. A bit sore from the trips into the woods yesterday, but it feels good, to be ahead, for when I return and it might well be very cold. The house is full of wood, starter sticks, kindling, oak splits. I'm up to speed on my list of things that must be done before I leave. Even repaired a bad place in the floor insulation. I felt cold air and knew something was wrong, found the problem and fixed it in spades, wedged in four inches of ethafoam. Immediate difference. I broke the day into discreet units, kindling, starter sticks, oak splits, got everything done despite what was probably a hangover. I don't know for sure because I don't keep track of failings. I do what I can. Early this morning I wrote a piece that I deleted. Too much repetition. What I think I say. So the sunrise caught me at my desk, back-spacing, until nothing remained. Then I suited up and split kindling. My elbows ache, but my legs are good, self-medication, I'm fine. When B was over last night, we talked about the ridge, what a gift we would find ourselves thus, grounded. Most of the starter sticks I cut by hand, a bow-saw, I'm careful about noise, I'd rather be slow than loud. It's a choice, whatever you decide, the way you precede. I merely notice, is that what you meant?

Tom

A single crow,
nothing unusual,
never mind.