Out the door of my writing shed are some things. What things? Yes, exactly. It’s up to me to tell you, and in telling you, I will shortly be making them. How I tell them is what they’ll be. Are those “shaggy sad redwoods, speaking of the long defeat that is life”? “Proud, magnificent red-brown friends of my working days, connecting me with innumerable generations past”? “A stand of redwoods”? “Some trees”? Depends on the day, depends on my mind. All these descriptions are true, and none of them is, at all.
