Monday, April 20, 2015

Emily Dickinson, Automobile Detailer

     Grouse (grouses, grice ?) always do it to me.  One moment on Sunday I was strolling along a backroad, the glassed out, east bay of Lake Hattie to my left, the road virtually early-spring abandoned, the next moment an explosion of blurred feathers launched past my face and up the wooded hillside to my right.  Good thing my liquids and solids were under control.  No sooner did the bird disappear in the branches than it turned into a honking pair of swans winging in the opposite direction.  I suspect the three were separate birds but am not sure.  Seems to me when a person's alone, I mean really alone, no one for better than a mile,  mother nature takes advantage, screws with the fool just for fun.  Why not?  Had I the power change face, I'd do it in a heartbeat.  Don't know about you but I'm thinking coatimundi.  Not exactly sure what they are, could be a cross between an outer garment and a day of the week.  Should you happen to pass a coatimundi biking along the paths of South Minneapolis, that's me.
     Beyond that, two trucks passed in the hour and a half.  Both raised the requisite index finger off the steering wheel.  All was right with the world.
     As you can see, life at the cabin tends to lack excitement.  It'd take an Emily Dickinson to wax poetic about my three days.  Truth is I'd rather have her wax my car.  Another highlight was looking up from my book to watch a phoebe fluff and preen (originally wrote 'prune'. Couldn't think of the right word. Have to admit prune is funnier) its feathers.  Had Ms. Dickinson been with me, and been done with the car, I'd have asked her to write me a poem.  Maybe something about life, death and continuance?
     Went back and read a few of her poems.  Bless her heart for keeping them short and upbeat.  And if you paid attention, they even rhymed.  Seemed to me she had a thing about birds and bees though Ms. Dickinson didn't poesy anything about sex, at least anything really steamy that I could find.  She'd have really liked the idea that the phoebe outside the sliding door may have been the great-great grandchild of the pair who first glued a nest to the side of the cabin.  Then would have let me know I would inevitably die, maybe in a week or two, possibly between the headlights of one of the trucks I'd passed on the road, and the phoebe wouldn't give a rat's ass one way or the other so long as the cabin remained standing.  Could be that's what she meant by continuance.  Life goes on even if you don't.

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