“What’s not to like about stick season? The forest, no longer soft & rustling, not flowing with sap, becomes an armored force of trunks and shadows. The feminine curves of the earth herself push up again to touch the sky. Where to hide, is different. Without cover behind hobble bush or fern fronds, the crags & crevices of cliffs, or secretly carved river dells look inviting. Possibly reachable by leaky pontoon boat, or on foot, led by twisted conifer roots & prophetic curls of bark and moss, as rain turns to swirling snow, pelting hat brims, startling exposed neck skin, for we have crossed the least desirable strip of moonlit real estate to get to an oaken door, iron strapped but not gated, faintly lit by a small window into the hill, where sits one small candle, afire. Home to the Tomten, perhaps, or Ratty or Mole, or even someone new to us but equally mythical, named, say, Windmilla; friends living east of the sun, and west of the moon, but rarely visited in person. Yes, we’ve set out without a compass in search of elusive wonders, hoping for a “welcome within” during times of scarcity, and have entered deep into the heart of stick season. On the surface, we must go on, living our difficult, mundane lives, imagining it’s better to have nowhere to go, no need to dredge up a smile when you don’t feel like it. Off the hook from certain things, free to spiritually ascend with all our free time, but oddly lacking any vision to see beyond the next meal. Living close to the land, that might be a plus, with outside chores, broken farm equipment to fix, sunrises still going up & roosters crowing just like they did, before things got wonky. Some still of a mind they’re going to catch something, others too preoccupied with paying the bills to examine that premise. Which is why I like going to the auto supply store, or sometimes the dump if it’s just Snook there, or late at night to the gas station. I can almost pretend things are normal, not the new one, but the old, tried and true one. The America, where you pulled out a card all bent and dirty around the edges, handed it to the store clerk and got rewards for your loyalty. Not like this current arrangement. Might as well burn your paper library card along with your cash. Pretty soon their rules will outlaw your cars, your tools, your natural immune system, so that you won’t be allowed to fix them yourself. And that about explains my predicament from top to bottom. Seems whoever’s in charge is too busy being in charge to know a damn thing about what makes a life worth living.”
