Square One

Nothing but defused light of early dawn. The fog obscures all the sharp edges. Widening gyre as the morning burns off. It's beautiful, the way the soft green comes into focus. I don't have an agenda, but I see the way bilateral leaves unfold. Hardly any movement, but a nudge in the right direction. All of history is contained in a poplar bud. Think of how careful she needs to be. Assume you'd bowed and kissed her toe, or whatever. I'd looked around and it wasn't a very secure position. Sand-bagged the high ground. You live on a flood-plain, you get used to high water. An in-holding such as mine, the highest point in the county, I've zero chance of flooding, sea-level would have to rise 1400 feet, but my access, down the various hollows, can often be problematic. So you lay in supplies and read, while the rain comes pounding down, hoping the driveway can handle the water. The library had called, and I'd picked up the latest Greg Iles novel, Natchez Burning, and another book, about building stills. I'm interested in making distillates from a few things. It isn't that difficult, condensing vapors that boil at different temperatures, all you need is a decent thermometer. I cob together a simple drip still, a canning kettle with an overhanging vessel (a large stainless steel bowl) and a glass container underneath. Soon discover I can distill anything. I have a rack, and some test tubes I seal with molten wax. History in a bottle. Elder Blow, 2014. Labels are important, the way they carry information. Dawn birds and the fucking refrigerator infringe on my soundscape. One bird in particular, I don't recognize, smudges in a leaden sky, it might be a Mocking Bird, fucking with my memory.