Following Tracks

There's a place on the old logging road that never gets any sun, so the snow stays there long after it's gone elsewhere. It's a palimpsest of overlapping tales. One story, and I've seen it several times, is when a set of rabbit tracks simply end. No blood, no disturbance. An owl took it away for dinner. The food chain. Read an interesting piece yesterday, I can't remember where, about eating rabbit ears; second hand, and not enough actual information. But I was intrigued and wondered if you skinned them (what would be left?) or just burned off the fur. I like pig's ears, sliced and fried in butter they have a wonderful texture, and I suppose rabbit ears would be similar. I can't find any recipes, except for a Roman reference that assumes you know how to prep them. B's brother, Ronnie, and his son, Bear, hunt rabbits, so I make a note to remember to ask them to save me some ears. I can't imagine they have any food value, but I enjoy using the normally discarded. Rabbit ears, cock's combs, humming-bird tongues. I don't like aspic or Jello, they freak me out, but I do like thymus glands and tripe. Go figure. Sleeping in the basement of a de-sanctified church is not that different from not believing. Another interesting place, speaking of tracks, is where the power easement tops the ridge. They cleared the easement this year (once every four or so years) and it doesn't get much sun, so it's a large field of snow. A couple of days after a snowstorm there are multiple stories writ in track and blood. I fabricate narratives to fit the physical record. The fox seems to score a mole or vole about once in every 6 to 8 tries. I definitely have a resident owl but I've neither heard nor seen it. The days are getting longer but the sun is feeble. It's the wobble on our axis that adds or subtracts more minutes in either the morning or evening at different rates. All the animals are out, it's the time of year when you eat when you can, squirrels, turkeys, deer, are all out, at the same time; and the sumac seeds litter the ground where the smaller birds are feeding. It's a Nature Channel newsreel the entire day. I walked over to the top of the driveway again, and it's still terrible, I could get down, but I'd never get back up. The only thing I'll run out of is cigaret papers, a stupid oversight, but I have a pipe and a tamper and kitchen matches, so I'll survive. I'll be eating canned and dried things for a few days, I'm looking forward to it, actually, some of these prepared meals are pretty tasty, instant Idaho Reds are damned good, and those Mexican tamales are fantastic. I had been studying tracks for a couple of hours when I realized my feet were frozen, went home and dealt with that. I had hot water on the stove so I soaked one foot at a time, they were fine, put on clean socks, collected my kit and settled in at my desk. Wrapped my feet in a Goodwill fleece stadium blanket, rolled a smoke, a sip of Irish, and settled into my other world, where I'm cross-referencing what a particular word means in a certain context. The outside world, mediated with soaking the feet, becomes the inside world. With no exterior stimulation, there isn't much transition. Watching a woodpecker, or cooking at the stove, later, thinking about watching a woodpecker. Getting a handle on things (what a great phrase that is) generally involves understanding the subtext. I have to admit I usually don't get the subtext. The ridge is up front, no hesitation, slaps me when I get out of line.