The old silver maple between kitchen and pond is slowly giving up its branches to others’ uses — woodpeckers and rodents inclined to hibernate, the complex dust of compost. And to us. Storms lop limbs like tantrum-ing spirits winging through the yard. A few hours without power, but a whole heap of firewood remains.
As I was hauling hunks of the old tree up to the house on this snow-hinting, wintry day, I got thinking simple thoughts. Elemental ideas of fire, water, earth, and air. How we are soggy beings, earth-bound, and calorie-burning who require for each and every ever-lovin’ breath an atmosphere of seemingly empty, silent and invisible air. Maybe it’s the simple things, after all.
