Monday, July 25, 2016


Climbing to Boscobel. My hat is so
hot it's off my head. Actually, I've
not worn one for two weeks now.
I made that up. I have a walking 
stick though, and this is true. It
was fallen, just an old limb, from
a tree. Right girth, perfect height,
and I even like the gnarls and 
curves. Funny how sometimes 
things just fall in place. Over
by the snack section, there's a
service counter and some benches 
with tables. All I can get, really, 
is water  -  way too hot for coffee,
and they make it like sludge, and
I never touch sugar, in liquid or
otherwise, so all those gloggy
and childish sweet drinks that
people slosh are out. What makes 
it worse though, is people from 
the Bronx. I mean, I don't know
but I can tell  -  just the worst:
loud, ineffective, fat and poorly
dressed, like the very air owes 
them something private and 
important and rare, and they 
won't shut up  -  or their ratty
kids either  -  until someone, 
anyone gives it to them. So,
I just kept going until I got
to a fence  -  an old iron one.
I hopped it over, slid into the
woods, and  - even though it was
still hot  -  walked my way back 
and around the whole place' 
In a holy silence, and was 
gone. Only some vampy lady, 
dressed in a Spanish white 
and a large sun-hat, saw me,
and waved as I passed.

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