Don't Ask

The wind woke me, howling like a banshee. A couple of weeks from now, leaves will ameliorate the sound, but for now it's woodwind, heavy breathing through stick-trees. The reed is rood. Four in the morning and I'm reading Whitman, Glenn had pointed out a passage, and I'm reading around it, looking for context:

Camerado, this is no book,
Who touches this touches a man,
(Is it night? Are we here together alone?)
It is I you hold and who holds you,
I spring from the pages into your arms --- decease calls me forth.

The last cold rush of winter past, the sassafras and poplar are budded, the fruit trees have blossomed, the frogs have fucked, but we are left with one last freeze. Nothing serious, but a reminder that we are not in control. Nature's way of exercising her dominance. I'll need to get my truck down to the bottom of the hill, because I have to get to work, another Nantucket sleigh ride, but that's always the way. Just when you think it's over, winter slaps you on the ass. I'm conditioned to this, start a fire, heat some water that smells vaguely of pickles, and wash my hair. Life, as I know it. The coming week looks odd so I plan some meals. I want to get Barnhart together with Glenn, the music is important, we'll have to eat and drink. Nothing is planned but there is a background against which events play. Being a hermit is easy because nothing matters, it's only when I dip my foot in the real world that problems emerge. When I'm alone I don't consider consequences, I only attend to my needs, watch where the foot falls, fix a meal, change my underwear. The wind is persistent. Just before dark a huge Pileated Woodpecker, large as a crow, flies into the scene, bangs away at a dying hickory. Bugs are where you find them. Listen. He cocks his head and hammers away. Staccato rain on a metal roof, I don't understand anything but it all makes sense, that nod of understanding. Hey, I've been there, wherever that is.