harsh elements

Birds ravage the feeders. Cedars are turning orange. And it worries me.

My stomach grumbles, so I drink coffee. Breathe in the quiet. Let the energy that’s carried me this far rise and continue to educate me.

I look out the window at the water, and there I am—chipping away at an icy lake that doesn’t exist. Out in the cold. Sitting on a bucket. Warming myself with whiskey. Perch fishing. Thinking about nothing because I’ve got nothing to think about. Just the next drink. The next fish. What to eat later while I’m watching the Wings game.

Time for more coffee.

I’m back. Really, I am. Riding high from checking a task off my mental list that’s been there for years—scraping and painting the garage door.

Yesterday, blistering hot. Standing on black asphalt. Sun burning through me as I worked a wire brush and scraper, removing flaky paint from wood. Thinking of finishing—getting that fresh exterior white up—so when my wife pulled into the driveway she’d be happy with what I’d done.

But maybe not. Could be I’m just waking. From a long day on the ice.

Up with a Bloody Mary. Cooking eggs and bacon. Shaking off the remnants of an unsettling dream—one where I’m old. Domesticated. Soft. Sweating the small stuff. Creating layers of protection that simply cannot stand the test of time and the reality of harsh elements.

But it can’t be. I can smell the bacon. Taste the smooth, black coffee.

And I can see them—the birds ravaging the feeders, cedars going orange. And I can feel it—the worry.

~ KJ