Solitude

Temporarily lost in the woods, sometime after noon. Stopped at a stump, to have a drink of water and eat a banana, thinking about how our life wraps around us. I know the way out, I wasn't really lost, I'd just never been in that place before. A different hollow, maybe in the next county over; might be able to find the spot, on the geodetic map tacked to the wall behind the dining table. Enough morels for a nice omelet, and a lot of small ones that I left in the ground, with cut branches around them, so I could find them tomorrow or the next day. Morel management. They just seem late this year. There's another area I want to look at tomorrow, on my other ridge, across the hollow; also would like to get down to the head of Low Gap Creek. Rarely find morels, in the open, on a ridgetop. They like dappled light and debris. Head of the creek could be perfect. Jenny, the Park Naturalist, can find them anywhere, I think she uses an electronic device. It's both quiet and noisy in the woods, no extraneous sound, but at one point I dropped over a ridge line, stopped dead in my tracks, there were turkeys in the bottom, working through the leaf-litter, and they sounded like a young army, moving through hostile terrain. The first time I ever experienced this, in Missip, I thought I was being followed by a bear. I stop often when I'm walking, it's not a track, I'm not trying to set a record, it's a slow dance in the natural world. So many acorns last year, that they are constantly underfoot; many have swollen, in the rains, burst their cap and shell, and halved, presenting a withered root. The turkeys are fat and I think about killing a young one, but banish the thought, I'm done with killing. Except for wasps. I killed 19 today and every one of them felt good. I've developed a kind of Issac Walton flip of the wrist approach with the flyswatter that guarantees death at a single blow. It's satisfying, but I'll have to clean the windows. Back from another outing in the woods, I'd talked with Mom about dying, sat on the back steps and rolled a smoke. It's flock consciousness that allows us to go on. Terry Tempest Williams says that "A museum is good place to be quietly subversive on behalf of the land" and I agree with that. The future glistens with irridescences. Not just sparkle, but the remains of that mirror ball, scattered across the floor. Fragments of glass in the joints. I couldn't help but notice. Spread widely and seeking the lowest level, like glitter, and finger-nail polish. Mostly, what you have to be careful about, is watching where you step. Don't track shit from one place to another. Get's you nowhere. What is it you want?