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The Little Things
Spring is coming. I think of middle school boys smoking rolled newspapers in the back shed and girls throwing rocks at each others heads. Warm plexiglass and the smell of smoldering leather and plastic in the backseat of a Cessna or a rusted out Nova.
Spring though. It feels good man. Little pieces of green, chewed up tennis balls from the neighbor’s gigantic Tibetan Mastiff. It could snap a giraffe’s legs if it wanted. According to your neighbor he’s a lover. A grizzly is a lover at some point and time, too. For twenty seconds, until it rips a family of deer in half. This is nature though. Just like the kids pretending to smoke weed out back.
I suppose everything knows Spring is coming in some respect. The hum of a train. A backseat of a car. A wooden post driven into the ground. The frost leaches a little less. Gives way. Even gives back a little that it took in the first place. Provides new ground for rot, decay, an old rancher to finally say fuck it, or a new one to want to tame a piece of the world and make it theirs.
Little things like fence posts matter. They add up. Slivers that had to be pulled with pocket knives eventually turn into bridges, and those bridges stand tall and long across raging rivers…until they don’t anymore.
I suppose Spring is a time to take a look at those bridges. Check for cracked rivets. Put the bad parts in your hands and crush it a bit. Throw it in the wind and downstream. Tell yourself that it didn’t matter. Or if it did, you have new wood to lay planks with.