When I flew out of town I should have looked back on the contrails, read the misfortunes that they told, because back home, the gods were merciless on my trails, tearing and thrashing all that teenage angst out upon my dear, dear madronas and my sweet, foolish mountain alder, and picked her right up at the roots and threw her into the woods.
I come upon a surprise, a mess in particular, and I react by smiling, although I have known close friends to shock the surprise right back where it belongs, at the feet of the sous chef, because the meat is too tough, and now it's too tender and now it's too late, goddamnit! But I have my smile, and my eerie quietude, and my stoic eyes that always have a ready answer to the question, 'WELL? WHAT'S THE MATTER?'
...
WELL?!?!
... (see? like a stone.)
Before an hour, it is no different than running through my office, desks knocked over, paper everywhere, discarded food wrappers, and I realize these are all metaphors comparing the busted forest with my messy room, but how on earth did my phone wind up here? Oh, I guess I just dropped it. It is so hard to navigate these unexpected obstacles.
I walked into a scene once, and she was whispering to her new guy, and not even in an evident ruse to rouse my jealousy, but because she really wanted to, and getting around that table, making my way to the restroom, and back, past suddenly ubiquitous onlookers, to the cashier for my check was very much like ducking under felled trees and over storm-bared roots while avoiding the rain puddles, all while not squirming at the memory of it all.
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