Dressed Correctly

After B left, with the news that we would be doing the driveway, I selected an outfit from the pile that would be labeled "Clothes Not To Be Worn In Public" and set them out on the table. Starting early tomorrow and I don't want to miss a thing. B and I have to clear an easement for the new ditch, which means cutting a bunch of saplings, and clearing them out of the way, not a big deal, but history has shown that I need to wear a long sleeved shirt. I'll tee-pee the trunks of the saplings as firewood, and haul the tops down the slope where they'll make a fine habitat for small critters. This is so exciting. I'll need a couple of loads of creek-run gravel, which is just the fines from a certain point in any creek, fist sized rock in a matrix of clay, to mound my egress. But, Jesus, it happens tomorrow. It's like a moon-launch. If it actually happens, I'll be amazed. You plan these things, but whether or not something happens is a matter of chance. I have no control over anything. I used to think it mattered, what I thought, now I know it doesn't. Everything is contingent on the weather. Scott and his brothers are building one of the new bridges down on Mackletree, so we'll get it done, in the next few days. B suggested I walk over and compose an Eulogy for the frogs, and it is closing a chapter in my life: I won't have the frogs to talk about anymore.

Bull frogs singing
in the dead of night
have been a mainstay
in the soundscape
I call home for a
great many years.

Longer than I've ever
lived anywhere, though
I'm not sure duration
is a test for anything.

Frogs are one thing,
actually getting to the house
is another. What about
the driveway?