Parsing Time

The measure of it escapes me, but there seems to be a cycle to the round of noises. No rain or snow (the first Sunday without either in several months), so I pull on boots, grab my mop handle, and walk over to the head of the driveway, and, yes, I should be able to drive in tomorrow. The ridge is stark and barren. The first green will appear in the median, near the top of the hill, where the sun strikes for a few hours in the afternoon. Mullein, and those miniature white flowers I've never properly identified. I have an agenda, though I'm usually without as plan: I need to shave, wash my hair, soak my feet in Epsom salts, and trim my toenails, a spring ritual. Enough blue sky to tease out a few shadows. Brown as a primary color. Morel season will be upon us in a few weeks and I go out with the yard rake and clear the leaf-litter from several patches where the first ones always appear. It was that little 'on toast' run that spurred my actions; morels in a butter sauce, on toast, is one of my favorite meals; and if I clear away the leaf-litter, I can see them more clearly. I need to devise a way to harvest acorns more efficiently. If I only had a still. The janitor becomes the Wizard Of Oz, brewing pure corn liquor in the basement. I can't sustain this, it isn't sustainable, you run out of steam, but the vision itself is nice, the way it floats above the fray.