Fall Walk

Susurration, the wind in drying leaves. A cool breeze that trembles everything in sight. The dog stayed home, sleeping under the back porch, and it's peaceful, walking alone, slowly, without her frantic antics. There are so many acorns that the footing is awkward, and I collect a shopping bag full of just plump yellow ones, wondering how they might be different from an earlier batch. Three crows in the graveyard, not a symbol, but merely three crows. Extrinsic, by which I mean originating from the outside, not the secondary definition, which I find confusing, which is 'extraneous'. Over a ridge-top, beyond the graveyard, I walk down through a hollow that is remarkably clear of underbrush. The mature oaks and hickories in this specific area, maybe twenty acres, haven't been cut for a long time, by human standards, in fact a long human lifetime, maybe 80 years. They've canopied and not much light hits the ground during the growing season so there are no brambles. I make a note to come back in winter, if I can remember where it is. I was slightly lost, a state I encourage, and often seek when something's on my mind. I do this so much, I usually don't even know what's on my mind, nor, particularly, care. Stumbling and cutting my way through briars, my mind is much more present in the cuts and blood-letting of the moment. Walking in a clear glade, a park, as they say out west, is a different kettle of fish. A cross between all-mind and no-mind. The American Zen state. There's an old rotted stump, that I marvel is actually chestnut and must be a hundred years old. Sit there and roll a smoke, clear the leaves and litter with my feet for a safe place to drop my ash. Across the hollow, there's a ledge of sandstone, with a cave-like alcove beneath, and after a ten minute, two-smoke break, I walk down, then back up, to investigate. A well-used site. Everything up and down the food-chain has lived there, pack-rats and squirrels to a recent use as a hunting stand. It's cosy, and with the right rug and wallpaper, would make a decent hideout. If I could only find it again. The close examination of even a small area is a long term pursuit. I lived on 120 acres in Mississippi and never saw it all, in ten years of study. The clock is ticking, right? The damnest thing, though I'm not shocked, Little Sister seems to have whelped a pup under the house. I noticed her dugs were dragging and that fucking smug killer Rot hovering on the fringe, so I'm not shocked, but Jesus, I'm not ready for another family. On the other hand, this could be a hell of a pup, so I pour milk on Little Sister's kibble. Make a note, the doggy birth-control didn't work, I'm now burdened with a family of killers. Me and Michael Vick, I feel his pain. Little Sister is not being a good mother, and I have to do some things I'm not proud of, crawl under the house and get very dirty. Camus was right. It's just not worth it. You find yourself, under a cabin, trying to jack-up a corner, so the place is stable, and you realize you could die there, buried in the rubble of whatever, a mere statistic. You know what I mine.