Added Tax

I don't know what to say, it seems apparent enough, that the world is an illusion, nothing is what it seems. Thunder, I'd better go to.bed. I breathe into my cupped hands, it seems to make a difference, but really, the rolling thunder is the statement. What's said. You can hover around any number of issues, but at the end it's you and a bunch of Redbuds, some Shad and a few Dogwoods, the verge is lifted to new heights. It happens, occasionally, in my world. I have to go, a squall line moving through. Then quiet and still. Try to sleep in, tired all last week, but the thought of morels on toast gets me up soon enough. Fabulous breakfast, another cup of coffee, a long essay on Turner. Several issues of the London Review Of Books. As is often the case on Sunday and Monday, I don't say a word to anyone. I have to get my tax stuff to TR's mom, Jodi, tomorrow, and next weekend I have to start Spring Cleaning, as the dust is starting to get to me (and I'm the most dust resistant person I know). The squirrels are out in force, I've never seen so many of them this time of year. They seem to like the buds on Hickory trees. I walked the ridge top, the new leaves are so soft and velvety. Even the first batch of frogs is going to make it, and those eggs were laid in February, but I am going to drain the puddles, as soon as they are gone, and buy some fill. I have a large amount of firewood I need to get to the woodshed, and I'm tired, frankly, of carrying everything an extra 100 yards. The walking is good for me, but I'm going to walk anyway, I just don't want to carry forty pounds of water or a fifty pound log anymore. Training for the Pioneer Olympics is becoming a thing of the past. My records stand. Just let me out the side door before they're broken. Easy to say things might have been different, but there's no proof anything would be. In most systems, things stay the same.