I got lots done, most of it while standing in the water wearing my very fetching hip-waders, and wielding man’s genius that is my trusty red slice-o-matic homelite that barges through thin or thick like butter.
I took my chainsaw to the farm field to tend the stream and deadfall. I got lots done, most of it while standing in the water wearing my very fetching hip-waders, and wielding man’s genius that is my trusty red slice-o-matic homelite that barges through thin or thick like butter.
Anything impeding the water flow got chunked and then piled in the bush, or rolled off to the side if it was too, too heavy. Later in the afternoon, I was aware of how tired I was. Not tired enough to stop–I kept going until the chain happened to fall off. Probably a good thing. At that point I still had all the same number of limbs and digits that I woke up with, so the universe looking after me again? I’ll take it.
Why all of this effort? To be honest, I am pulled to this place by a duty to something dear and deep. Without any beasts grazing and beasting around under the canopy, the undergrowth has become overgrowth–it is unruly, and those trees that I used to spend hours playing under when I was a kid, are not happy.
Over the years, I’ve done my best to save them from the bastard vines that scurry up their trunks, defoliate them, and then pull the whole tree to the ground, but things are still not right. It’s more than the vines. It’s like they know. They exude an energy toward me when I’m there as if to say,
“Was it something we did? Why aren’t you here anymore? And what is going on with everyone? We miss you…and we’re sad.”
I am sad too.
- Suzanne Crone
