Following Through

Not a clue, just a noise in the dark, either a bird or a bat in the house. Turn on some lights and find the butterfly net. It's a bat, and I'm leery of them because of rabies, but I catch it, quick enough, and free it outdoors. Lovely night, even a few stars. I refrain from breaking out in song, and decide to crank up Black Dell and see if I finished what I was working on last night and whether or not I had sent it. I never know, anymore. Not much more than a running commentary, but it tickles my fancy to see what can be said. If I describe something, an act, a flower, the way the water flows over the spillway. 'Intersect the creek where the deer path crosses', for instance, was something I was going to say. Related to a specific thing, I don't remember now, exactly what. Shuck this mortal coil. It's spring, and you're still alive. What are the odds? I can't even begin to imagine. Irony might play a part. Made an excellent cream of mushroom soup. A nice walk in the gathering green. The view across the hollow is already reduced by 50%. The first tiny fruits on the blackberry canes that get the most light, lovely little things; sassafras leaves are opening (a note to myself to pick some in a week or so, to dry as filo). The texture of the leaves right now, the sassafras, red maple, even the first oak, is a cross between silk and velour. A slow saunter of a walk, where I stopped and looked and felt and smelled things. Oak galls (they have a sweet liquid in them that doesn't seem to cause any distress) and rare buds. I always carry a knife, so I can cut things open, to see what's inside. Beautiful delicate caracoles. I make a vegetable dish, that is just a little shocking, out of the hearts of bud; cooking it like I might the tight leaves of Brussels Sprouts. I love breaking things apart and making up stories; but I want to know, as a bottom line, what you meant. Could you doubt that I could swing it this way?