As I was a bit late and needed to get inside and call Mother before her suppertime, I put off examining the tree until today. So, when I reached Possum Cough, I changed clothes, stuffed a couple of carrots into my Carhartt's pockets, and walked up into the woods.
Shorty and Domino saw me coming, and Domino nickered at my approach. He started to trot towards me, but Shorty did an end-run around him and reached me first. Of course, the ever-courteous donkey waited for his larger friend to take the first bite of carrot, but he got his share in time as well.
The tree was a large forked maple, about forty feet tall. The southernmost fork had apparently gotten caught by a hard gust and some weakness inside had been finally and mercilessly exposed. The fork, as thick as my torso, is barely attached to the main trunk with some strips of bark and stretched wood fibers. The other day I saw a nice chainsaw for a very reasonable price.
As I stood surveying the broken tree, I was thinking about how much chainsawing I'm going to eventually have to do. And I enjoyed the thought.
If you look to the left of the tree, you'll see the green tarp that is Domino and Shorty's shelter from the elements. I've had to reconstruct it twice now, due to the winds and heavy snows. But it's in pretty good shape, and they enjoy the windbreak. Which is not to say the breaking of wind, per se.
And if you look carefully at the tree in the center of the photo, you'll see that it has a slight double fork, too. This is the tree from which I retrieved a big hornet's nest our first week here at Possum Cough. Jason and Joshi-O may each remember me showing them the nest.
After examining the tree, I turned to the fenceline and stood looking at the mountains. I do not know the irreducible minimum of happiness for any other sppirit than my own. It is impossible to be certain even of mine at certain seasons. Yet I believe I know my own visible touchstone of emotional calm. It is a mountain top against a patch of sky. If I should become crippled or long ill, or should have the horrible destiny to be clapped in some dreary jail for something I say or write or do, I could thrive, I think, given this one token of the physical world. I feed on the sight of the not-too-distant mountains here, and I have done so in every place I've ever been where mountains were part of the landscape. I believe - I truly believe - that this affinity for God's mountains is something borne in my blood. Certain places call to certain types of people. I have long known my own type, and my own calling.
Just as I started to turn from gazing at the Clinch Mountains, movement drew my eye down to the pasture. A large buck went galomping with fierce grace across the pasture towards the far treeline. I turned the camera back on to try and get a shot, but he was too fast. But a bit of patience, a bit of still staring....and along came a large doe (at least I think it was a doe; I didn't see a rack on this one, but it blended into the background a bit more than the buck did). She trotted along for a few yards, and then apparently caught my scent. She snorted and stomped and leaped and ran, all within the space of one second. I did manage to get off one click, and if you look just to the left of center in the middle of the frame, you'll see her.
And if you look with great care at the mountains behind her, you'll see the remnants of snow up on the pine-dotted peaks. And perhaps if you close your eyes and think about how the mountains look, how the trees sound when a high wind brushes through them, you'll have an inkling of an idea of how peaceful Possum Cough and her denizens are on this cold, clear evening.
Rest well, loved ones.
