Lost Wax

I had spied B carrying splits from the head of the driveway to his woodshed from the upper curve of the driveway. He was wearing a faded orange vest and looked like a Chinese lantern. Dropped my pack, jacket, and walking stick (a worn out mop handle) on my side of the driveway and walked over to the back of his truck. I knew he'd return because he sets up a rhythm on his wood hauling trips and he had a lot of wood to haul. He returned; we exchanged greetings, and I ask him where he had obtained such a splendid red oak. We know these back-roads well, and I knew exactly which tree he was harvesting, had wondered who had been, because I had seen evidence that someone was. "That first slight curve after the clear-cut on the right." And I knew exactly which tree he was talking about, not treeness, or treeabilaty, but the exact tree, in a forest of a million trees. Blew me away. I'd steered away from that tree, because of the boles, I knew it'd be hard to spilt, but B waded right in, as if that was the challenge. Anymore, I just prefer saplings, that only have to be split in half. I've gone easy, in the scheme of things. DUV, QUI, AWAC, EXEBOW, whatever those acronyms mean. I'm better spent cutting rounds of poplar; an idiot with a measuring stick and a bow-saw, than thinking about what something actually is. That's not quite correct, and probably misleading, isness I understand, meaning eludes me. I had left the radio playing, softly, late night FM, doing an extended set of James Taylor, his brothers and son. What you might call the new American songbook, some Greg Brown, the Allman Brothers, up through the Grateful Dead, covering Stephen Foster. Blind Lemon Jefferson, Mississippi John Hurt, Doc Watson. A warm might, December 17th, 2012. Rain patters the roof. I'm napping on the sofa. When the hour changes, the music changes and I have to get up and mute that, kill the breaker on the fridge, roll a smoke. Something's bothering me and I need silence to figure out what it is. I play a game, where I align the fingers of one hand against the other, creating arches that span very small spaces; my mind is off in left field, considering string theory, multiple universes, how that might affect our concept of god (the gods), and rather or not I should get another drink. I decide to, and roll another, because the night is deep and dark and I don't want to talk to another soul, just reflect on the way things play out. The holidays, when I'm not with my daughters, is not a good time to be with me. First off, I'm libel to say anything, and secondly, holidays are so artificial. I have to go because the phone is working. You understand.