“Still seems like summer, the invisible crickets and warm afternoon sun like a drug, lazily mainlined, in complete denial of what comes next. The ripened apples, bunching on branches, ready to be bit into, or dropped into field grass, to rot. This time of year is the time of the sickle, and of the scythe. A time punctuated by the single crow, or raven, or hawk, whose cry sends a chill regarding the dangers of a solitary existence. The kind born of fear, or alienation. & as the night creeps in earlier, and colder, it creates a scramble, here and there, for kindling, and warmth. A hustle, at wrong hours or when the mood is dark, for other reasons perhaps, loss or betrayal. I could also be clouded, as shiftless as the season, & wallow down, however this isn’t how it’s going to go. Almost as clear as the water in the hollows, I see thru what wishes to prey on me, finally, and deeply. A meditation such as this, could last until I’ve run the last road, or dug up my last fossil. Truly, a life’s work. Like embracing the pottery’s fatal crack, for its opportunity, to be filled with gold. That’s my number. That’s my game. And realizing that my trucks tailgate is broke locked, I try it again. And again. Using every key I know or remote key or wish. Yet it’s down, & will require some measure of a day ahead, for me to sit in a plastic chair in an indoor-outdoor carpeting world of hurt, & participate in its healing. Short of that, I’ll just have to climb in, to get things out. A shovel, today, and a rake. The long climb downhill to the daylily garden with my Bucket Boss, kind of feels right. I like to be out of the way when I’m working, and not in anyone’s scope of influence. Some of us work better, alone. Able to spread all our tools out, and not worry about anyone tripping on them. I’m always happiest, when there’s a stone walkway, that’s been buried by time. That’s the kind of project i won’t ever shirk or short anyone, results-wise. There are layers, and then layers. Detective work, really. On top, dead apple leaves, the flop of Lady’s Mantle, let-go grass & candelabras of spunky, local weeds. Then, troweling inquisitively, one finds the steps, the terrace walls, the forgotten way. Maybe, respecting someone else’s work, muscled into place, long ago. Or not so long ago. Plants are quick to take over, and erase us. They do it so politely, we can hardly complain. I talked to Beth, right there, hanging an arm over the broken tailgate, feeling relaxed in that way you do when nothing’s frozen yet, and you’ve still got time. I’m almost too interested in people, for my own good. Yet, good people find me, as much as bad do. So, it’s a toss. Beth hadn’t an inkling, maybe, when we started chatting, that we were both struggling with social expansion. That making friends, it turns out, isn’t as rosy and casual as it might used to be, when you lived so much of a life. And often gardens, then, rear up for attention, and you’ll respond like a first responder, because its so much easier to not have to talk or tell your story, to a plant. Yeah, I know. I do tell a lot of tall tales, about just about everything. You do too, & I wish we lived closer. I still have a surplus of incredible revelations to gift on you, to draw your heart into where I think it belongs. That’s just me; ain’t no changing it now; not sorry.”
— Ridgerunner
“Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference.”
