Skipping Work
Susan and I are together again, back in the hills of Southeastern Ohio. Hills with deep, bedrock bones - bones of sandstone, ever wet. On top of them, a covering of thick flesh - unyielding clay, brown. The path darts in and out, a numbing undulation: back into the hollow, out and around the hillside, back again. Streams are trickling down. Soggy forest litter, squishes underfoot. We're in an old pine stand listening to the trees. They're absolutely speaking to us in creaks, moans and whispers; tall pines, dead with spongy, rotten wood; half fallen over - one of them - and leaning against a live neighbor - so precarious. Susan and I become dramatic. We overemphasize the danger and run down the path, underneath the leaning pine. First, Susan and then myself. As one goes the other watches, smiling for the thrill of our game, but hoping against the unthinkable. On goes the path, bending left and right, up and down. It takes us into deeper stands of pine, shady but warm and carpete...