better to be practical than official
I take scraps to the back to feed fox and rabbits, leaving bipedal prints in the snow. But wildlife cue by scent, dissipating like a timer until the all-clear.
Spoiled tangerines will go to rot, as will the squash and most lettuce. Carrots for compost remain as pristine as when tossed there last spring. No animals touch veg from the States. I have to wonder—should I?
Beyond the mouth of the cedar maze where I dump the scraps, a pair of mourning doves stand on the path. The grey centurions and I share surprise with synchronized blinking, and stillness in finding each other.
I haul tree debris further up the hill. Not through the maze; snowless between the cedars. It’s easier to drag a tree across the snow and seems surreal to carry arboreal carcass through its parental forest.
My burn permit has a seal, raised by the county clerk. License to cinder. Old Nick, wizened in the resin, attempts an eager escape. I have to slap him with the shovel.
My neighbour comes over, seeing the smoke rising. How’re you, how’re things. I feel clever about the burn pit, with snow to douse sparks, and my minted permit, of course.
He laughs. This is the country. Nobody has an actual permit. Keep it in the pit n’keep a shovel. I can hear Lucifer, smouldering in the white ash, laughing at my serial number readiness.
