Later

I thought about what I thought I meant. Not sure it even approaches what is, words in a pattern, gibberish. I fall back on certain touch-stones, making sense, describing clearly, find the thread, an easy transition, then you're on your way. They'll be a large guy at the door, ignore him, wear the silly hat and act like you know what you're doing. Kick him in the groin. It's important to get the large guys down. Focus your attention. Small things are important too. I clip buds as a matter of course, I need paths, there's some carnage, what was the point, that some things die so that others might live? Making sense of myself is just a reward. It's in the act that I become myself. I'd like more control, but I don't have it, just another drone. Carrying wood is fine, another assigned task. I don't have a problem with work. I have a problem with drug tests, because I'm always doing drugs, one kind or another. What do they mean even asking? Below zero nothing matters, everything is still inside but outside is a gale, it pushes against the house. It doesn't mean anything, just a cold wind, slipping down from Canada. Wear a vest and pray for warmer weather. It seldom stays below zero for any period of time, this isn't the South Pole, after all, just Southern Ohio, cut me some slack, the continental USA, it shouldn't be possible I'd freeze to death. I'll just hole up in my sleeping bag, let this blow over. Really. The wind is awful, blows like it had something to say. I ignore it until a piece of my puzzle falls over. It could happen to any of us, what number you were missing, you might even make a guess. Wouldn't matter. If I hold the high ground, I control the battlefield. That only makes sense if you think about it a certain way. A kind of game. I'll show you mine if you'll show me yours. I'm so much older now, I don't want to play. The snow was so delicately balanced any move you made disturbed things, of course you moved, who would not, and the house of cards tumbled. Nothing is as it seems. A post, what seems. I have to go. I'm gone. Now I'm back. Very cold weather necessitates different patterns. I tend to keep a paragraph going, send at odd times, start another piece in the middle of the night. Today was full-frontal winter, right at zero when I got up, high temp just above 10, below zero tonight. Get the house somewhat warm, eat potatoes and eggs and toast, then suit up. The hollow is protected from the wind, a solid veil of sparkling ice crystals, footing is bad and I remind myself that a fall could be fatal. Split the last branch section in half and split one of the trunk sections into quarters. Exhausting, working in such cold, but so beautiful in the sparkling. The trunk section quarters are almost too heavy, but I get them to the staging area, I'll carry them in tomorrow, maybe bust another one and carry it out. Being very careful is draining. But looking down, as you must in these conditions, every footfall being critical, I become again a student of tracks. I make up stories about what they mean, and at this point, after decades, some of them might be accurate. I can see where a small rabbit was taken by a hawk, the tracks end. I can see where a yearling deer heard something, and stomped her foot, they way they do. I can see I should harvest a grouse, because they seem to be everywhere, remember to take a screen out of an upstairs window, so I can shoot the next one in the yard. Yard is an euphemism for the chaos of my surrounding. Grouse cooked until the meat falls off the bone, duly boned and added back to a thickened sauce, served on egg noodles. No sign of the fox, she's gone to ground; I imagine her with the two of this year's kits that survived, holed up, warm, in a den somewhere, slowing down their processes, going out for the occasional mouse. Sleeping most of the time. I damaged my right thumb, not badly, and I don't know how I did it. It had to have been right through my work-gloves, because I was wearing them all day, the glove in question isn't damaged, but I took off a good bit of skin somehow. Maintaining the wood stations is easy when you're splitting oak; kindling, starter sticks, are a by-product; I collect everything. You wouldn't believe the ritual. I have to touch so many things in the morning that I have a check-list, posted by the door, so I won't forget anything important. Memory is a monster. Mostly I choose to forget. Don't ask.