Emily

She draws at my heart-strings, she's everywhere in this world I experience, the air I breathe. Out the southeast window of the kitchen a couple of young red maples are lit by afternoon light. Nothing special, but they glow in a way that catches my attention. I'm so easily diverted, the classic mountain stream. The path of least resistance. You see something and you wonder what caused that. Rereading Emily's later letters, looking at her tombstone. Hour on, hour off, sawing wood, reading. Just enough light breeze and enough small birds in the understory, that there is no extraneous sound. At one point I wander off, thinking I saw a mushroom down the logging road. It was the underside of a poplar leaf, bleached almost white, an honest mistake. And extend the walk, looking closely at leaf form and color, marveling at this slice of the natural world. I spend an hour walking a hundred yards and back. I shouldn't be surprised when someone asks me If I'm alright. Crab cakes, picked up several cans of premium crab meat at Big Lots and I make a batch (these experimental batches are three cakes) with a little acorn flour and some instant mashed potatoes as binder. Fried in butter, these are a little heavy, but I like them, the last one I fried in bacon fat and served myself with a mild hot sauce. It was heavenly. I didn't lose the crab, and the crust was magical. I want a slight 'bite', I want some resistance. A flattened note, something.