Sunday, February 14, 2016

On the edge of a faceburner

Three degrees to start the day
and six by the time I force myself to the task
the diurnal walk about
through three parcels
with three dogs and three thermal layers
and trusty ski poles to keep the presentation vertical 

Through the first five acres
the forest protects us from the wind
as we trudge into the blue path south and west
toward the property corner and an opening to the wind
my right cheek and nostril catching the first icy needles
as we break into the open
I have to turn away

Hard to port we go down the west wind
dogs all hot
on deer and rabbit turds
squirrels and voles
great horned casts
past the gully bottom
where a gut shot buck
lies deep under the stiffened drifted snow

By the time we reach the lake
the snow is coming sideways and hard
I have to turn the right side of my face
least it feels the burn too much

At the house there are pickled pike to pack
curing the week past in the dark confines of the basement fridge
Pike that slashed both spoon and plug
a late autumn frenzy that reduced two of their hoard to fillets
swimming now in vinegar, spices and cheap wine
in a recipe so antique
it calls for Silver Satin
Pre Napa Valley stuff

My face tingles still
in the jar's reflection
showing indeed
a ruddy burnt face

And Blondie fairly spins about the place, singing "Ding Dong the Justice is Dead".

Wednesday, February 10, 2016


Midwinter grit
I don't see no stinkin' shadow, OK?