thinking tangentially about my cottage

Grass under my toes, in my nose, around me sprayed a hose, I was up north in the woods, land and stars agreeing about sunset; the stars reciprocated the kindness of the water, reflecting into our eyes in twinkles and ripples. The rocks continued to hold their grudge - you can’t get blood from a stone. The trees worried about the wind, stirring when it whipped around; air attacked our lungs with a benevolent tenacity, skin and hair struck by briskness. I was a romantic, so romantic, attributing my features to the man in the moon, my singular sense of humour to the wayward loon. I come from a land of hard realism and concrete autos and iron clad arrangements, no music fast or loose enough to wrap around my hole-filled heart, so I started from nothing and landed in the wild, naked and hairy with a brain for a club, eyes to make love and teeth to tease out subtleties from that swamp of words, bulrushes thistles and sausages on a stick, the zan-zang of mosquitoes and the bumblebee’s floating unpredictable prick.