Total Green

It's a wall, completely surrounding me. I can't see 50 yards in any direction. The driveway is canopied, dark, in overcast light. There's a new flush of oak galls and they're very sweet, pink and creamed-colored, and I thought briefly about distilling, realized it would cost tens of thousands of dollars an ounce. The perfect mogul's drink. The snicker of rain on the roof, the blackberries will be happy, and the corn in the bottoms along Turkey Creek. I like walking those fields, after they've harrowed but before they plant, looking for arrowheads. A lot of bird-points, lovely little things. These bottoms have been hunted for thousands of years, grouse and turkey and deer, but they yield little trace. A few pieces of rock. This time of year, though, I have to say, you can't see a fucking thing. The green is complete, right from the ground up until it becomes sky. The darkest greens, holly, wild rhododendrons, some of the conifers, spatter the landscape; most of the greens are soft. Blue ranges wildly. Pollen and catkins cover the Jeep, it looks like an artifact. I'm trying to get the rest of the split wood inside and realize I need to pay someone to do this for me. I'm old and beaten down, I used my body hard for a lot of years, and I'm quite content, now, with rereading Proust and sipping tea. The good old days, when we plowed with mules and planted a market crop, like mining coal with a pick and shovel, for the most part are past. The rain sets in hard, drumming on the roof, so I check my black-out kit, spread a buffet of cheese and olives, set out the camp stove so I can cook Ramen. The bar is low here, I'm not going to freeze to death and I have plenty of food. It's pleasant, actually, the sense of isolation that weather imposes. No phone, no electricity, reading with a headlamp seems perfectly natural; yes, I couldn't get out to socialize, but what does that matter? I spent the evening reading about forks.