Wind

The ridge is perfectly exposed. A winter storm, but no winter in it, it's 46 degrees and the blackberry canes are breaking bud. The bullfrogs are hedging their bet, a few of them breed every day it's above 50 degrees. I haven't gone out to watch them, which I think shows enormous restraint on my part, but I see and hear them on my way in and out. B took 25 gallons of maple sap down to the maple shack, brother Ronnie and Bear have tapped the trees down at the mouth of the hollow. Maple syrup is a forty-to-one equation. Sycamore is even worse, but I made enough Sycamore syrup to coat the outside of a small lamb roast (maybe a tablespoon), then rubbed it with chilies and rosemary. Thank god more people don't like Brussels Sprouts, because they get remaindered fairly often. I just peel off the bad leaves, and break them up, with a stick of butter and lots of black pepper. Roasted another round of root vegetables, mostly little purple potatoes, to which I seem to be addicted right now. I sat at the island, balancing a book in my left hand, conducting, with a fork, in my right. There's a dipping dish, with a highly spiced olive oil. I eat potatoes and listen to the Cello Suites. Sublime. Eventually the wind dies down and you wonder how many trees you might to clamber over on the way down to the truck tomorrow. In just a few hours, actually, because I got up to pee and started writing again. It's not different, I had argued with B that it was, but it's not. When I got up to pee, four in the morning, and started writing, I was just picking up the thread.