Frigid Beauty

So lovely, cold, but no wind. I work outside for hours, with various hats, depending on how much heat I need to lose. Finally take my 'SIMPLE' cap out to the shed so that I can easily switch on and off with a watch cap to keep my ears from freezing. I hate to cover my ears, because I can't hear. Pileated woodpeckers all day, two or three of them working the neighborhood. Little snow birds are out and enjoying the day, if their song be measure, as much as I enjoy mine. A walk-about, out to the graveyard, forlorn, on a day like this. Back home I make a quick dozen cuts with the chainsaw, doubles all, gives me 24 rounds to split later, put the chainsaw away, noisy bastard. Split a bit more, but both arms are cramping just a bit. Bring a few more doubles to the shed, broom off the snow, put away the tools. Coffee, a serious early dinner of meatloaf on a bed of mashed potatoes, with mustard greens, tinned, from a small producer of Southern Food in Columbus. I meant to make biscuits, but I forgot; a heel of sliced Multi-Grain, serves as trencher. I stay suited-up, because I might want to go back out later. Comfortable in myself, a little dirty, a little sore, needing a shave, ready for a smoke and a drink. Need to get another armload of wood, for in the morning, but that can wait. I'll wear crampons for that last trip and be very careful, the back porch is a sheet of welded ice. Need to get a bag of road-salt. Should be able to drive in one day next week, cold enough and the snow is dry. The augury of things. The face that might appear in a split of poplar, the smell of piss when you split Black Oak, a flash of red in your peripheral vision, the way you pronounce Louisville, or New Orleans. My resolution is merely to survive, I have no expectation; I'd like to get some things done, but I probably won't. I'm like that rag-picker in "Suttree", living under the bridge, starting fires with packing crates, eating road-kill, and eventually freezing to death. A certain legacy. You die, someone finds you, they bury a body. What does existing mean, exactly? Not-dead? Listen, I put on crampoms, and go get an arm load of wood. Reality is such a problem. Could we just see into the future?