A Story

Dupree running his trap line. It was late. He made arguments for and against. Several of the traps were in bogs, where water inevitably crept over your boot-tops. Dupree puts his shoulder into freeing another stuck wagon. Nothing you wouldn't do for any other pilgrims. No matter what they say, I would never eat your babies. I draw a line, somewhere south of there. Dupree had a penchant for moving targets, he told me, this could hardly be ascribed, that he was only ever comfortable when the ducks flew in without a decoy. I had to think about that. We either become the ducks or the shooter in his blind. Shocked out of my reverie by a small helicopter that seems to be examining each of the hollows. Google Maps? I have no idea. It's difficult to escape the notion, what with recent events, that someone is interested in me. Not in a good way. Odd, if so, because they would find me at a point in my life when I'm rather remarkably almost spotless as concerns any important laws. It's probably nothing, a State Forest survey of trees damaged in the ice-storm of '04, a close study of extremely local drainage, or fuel to the rumor that 'they' want to buy up the land that would connect two wilderness areas. If that rumor was true, and they caught me on the right day in February, if the price was anything short of disgraceful, I might sell. There would be the problem of where I would go. Further south. Truthfully, though I have moved a great many times, including moving a print shop twice, I'm not sure I could do it again. I'm finally living in a place designed by me, built by me, for me; all of my books about me, my beautiful Stanley Waterford cook stove, windows that look out on deep forests, and, often, a serene stillness that calms the soul. Then there are the crows, who interrupt the interruption. I did have a couple of mice for them, they're like spoiled kids who expect candy and a present. Still, they function as a scratch on the sound-track album. A hitch, where Bob forgets his own lyrics. The day got away from me. I woke up imagining a fictional character and was soon brought back to point. Stoke fire, melt snow. I'm tired of lifting my feet so high to walk, it makes my hips hurt. It dripped for a couple of hours today, so it might have been above freezing, at least where the sun was shining.