Planting Trees

What could the matter be? I don't even remember today, something about something I remembered doing, then cloud cover obscured the sun. I was planting trees, on the opposite ridge. Nothing special, some sugar maple maybe the next generation would enjoy, and some birches that tend to cluster. Probably some deer will graze them, and they'll die as infants, a succulent mouthful. Nothing more. The wind stirs the leaves. Simple geometry, the wind, and dust devils. I find it hard to believe I'm being taken seriously now, after all these years. I assume they're just taking me for what I am, but I don't know for sure. Maybe something is expected. I can't imagine what. That I'd know what I couldn't possibly know, or that things would take a different turn, somehow things could spin mid-stream. a back-water, an eddy or something, and go back the same way, and sense would emerge. The chance is remote, but hope springs eternal. Everything is covered with pollen, to move is to sneeze, and the gentle breath of even a muted breeze stirs a winter's dust. I'm pretty sure it's night because it's dark and there's a half moon setting. Leave well enough alone. I have to shave, tomorrow, and wash my privates, but for now, I just scratch myself like a ball player and call it good enough. If you listen to "Moby Dick", a very good recording, is it the same as a book? What is text? I have to call Glenn. Whenever I'm not sure, I call Glenn. Reality check. Making sense is a relative thing. Text is a slippery subject and Glenn is one of the few people I trust when it comes to what's said. We share a passion for Melville.