Leaving Graves to Gape

Holding still for east, a garbage truck rumbles the reminder that I have forgotten to put out the trash for the second week in a row. A long, exhaled shit. The week darts about like moth – full of backward glances and future charms.

Sunburns / bluegills / bourbon-barreled beer on the dock.

In the water, my skin cools to become landscape and horizon. Effortless. Everywhere.  

Lately the trees stand still. Heat draws out the winter like a salve. But winter is still here in this sentence. It's July already and the urge to measure and conserve and savor is still choking the praise out of my neck. Summer has its own set of commandments and I am walking along the edge of the lake still wondering if it is too cold.

Last night's storm erupted from nothing. At 3 a.m. the sky broke open and poured down green disco flashes and half-dollar hail. The wind conjured fists full of debris and wouldn't stop hurling. Couldn't stop hurling. Ancient oaks crushed the earth leaving their graves to gape. We won't have electricity for 72 hours but we also don't have a 90 ft oak slicing our home in half.

Morning reveals an altered land. Instead of walking past 45 oaks on the way to Rush Creek Park, I walk past 41. Decades of life now in decay. A grief welters in a pit where the tree's placenta used to swim.

Sometimes she is on the edge and looks over to realize that the edges are many. The tree's roots are legion. The deaths suffered are infinite. Today, amongst the ruins, my body and I must accept the inevitable fall I'm going to take.