Making Sense

A few notes. Some muddy footprints by the back door. The lingering smell of tobacco. What trace of me remains. I share a taste, with my Mom, for liver and onions. And I still count coup, when it comes to keeping track, just as a way of marking time. Even when it doesn't matter. When I'm alone and no one is watching, I tend to arrange things in a certain order; two peanuts for Mad Tom and be damned for the rest of them. I'd like to think there's an order, but I suspect chaos is at root. The tell is when a crow makes more sense than the wind. Tonight, for instance, after I shut down, the wind was howling a new ground, and the rain was pelting the metal roof; hail at one point, staccato, and the mere sound of it would raise the dead. I wondered why I was witness, an idle thought, nothing philosophical, and a clap of thunder exploded right on top of me. The house shook. I thought I might be dead. When I realized I wasn't, I put out a couple of buckets, to harvest the rain, put on a headlamp, rolled a smoke, and considered my lot. Alone, needing all the things I need, stuck on a ridge in Ohio. It doesn't make a lot of sense. Factor in new relationships and the passing of the guard. In some ways I'd like to leave it all behind, but I'm interested in what might happen. What I've discovered is that if you change a single comma to a period, everything is different. Makes me careful, where I place my feet. Just a thought. I still surprise myself sometimes, and make no bones, that's why I'm still in the chase. I don't bring anything new to the game, but I do tend to notice things. Today was an explosion of Day-Lilies. I had to pull off the road. They were everywhere. I was so distracted I missed my turn and drove the long way around; in all the bottoms the lilies were rampant. Day lilies, Tiger lilies, and a hybrid I think of as my own, that has begun to emerge, where feeder creeks flow into the greater drainage, for now I just call it Bridwell's Lily.