Stratification

The ridge is about a week between town in springness. A thousand feet higher. Which is about right using what I think of as the Colorado Index. That every thousand feet is a bench mark, where things are different. A hundred shades of green. I can still see the forest floor on the ridge across the hollow, in a week it'll be gone and I'll start that season in which I am completely encased in green. The oaks are breaking bud, only the hickory and the black walnut are lagging behind, as usual, but they never make a mistake. The oaks have their ass covered, they have an entire second set of buds, waiting in the wings. Frost warning tonight, but it won't frost on the ridge, the heavier cold air flows down into the hollows, I escape at least four frosts in the fall and another four in the spring, but as a consequence of being so exposed, unprotected, the winters can be hell. I have to go to Wal-Mart and I'm wondering when the best time would be. I have to go because I need some new underclothes and I just got my second goddamn Wal-Mart gift card in appreciation for taking several groups through the museum. Coin of the realm, right? the Wal-Mart gift card. And I might as well use them. I think I'll hit the store at eight in the morning, grab six boxer briefs, the style I prefer, and six tee-shirts, be on my way, stop for a breakfast burrito and still be at work by nine. Commando foray into the world of commerce. I can do it, I just have to remember where I park so I can make good my escape. Getting by isn't all that hard, if you're willing to give up running water and companionship. I don't actually live in a tree-tip pit, however much I might fantasize about how I should or one day might. My mind is working faster than my fingers, so a certain incoherency creeps in. I hate it when that happens, because I always try and take a few notes, and I can never read them later. They're squiggles. They don't signify anything except the attempt to keep notes. I'll have to think about that. Meaning is mostly hidden in plain sight. Daffodils where a house used to be. You know what I mean, no reason for an elaborate explanation, the past is a bucket of ashes. The best poem he ever wrote, trailing off his lips, was what he had said to me several days before, about the dogwoods in Mississippi, that occasional pink one.