Memory in the Margins

I am watching the nasty weather outside: 40 degrees F, cold rain, gusting wind. I have to feed the sheep and I dinna wanna do it.

My memory spins to the summer: climbing atop a noisome diesel tractor I mow the field’s margins stirring up ground nests of yellow jackets. As I duck low branches I feel a “watchdog” of ticks fall on me and assassin bugs and blister beetles all aflutter on my clothes and skin.

Returning to the nastiness of now becomes a happier form of struggle. A happy obstacle.

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