Out in the deep woods the holidays come and go and no one decorates or celebrates. It's all about seasons out here, the angle of the sun, the rainfall, the migrations of animals, transformations in damp cocoons, seeds sprout up toward the sky, leaves blanketing the ground. Here we are our own decoration, and we don't number the days or remember the past. Out in the deep woods no one knows their birthday and there's always plenty of parking, for what it's worth.
What does survival of the fittest mean in the mall or on the telephone? Someone once asked me if we'd evolve more fingers for typing, sitting clueless at the keyboard, drinking a green tea and eating a granola mix called "Natural Selection". You say you want an evolution? Well, you know, we'd all love to change the world. Maybe women will evolve long, pointy heels and silicon breasts. Maybe men will evolve baseball cap heads and remote control hands. These are not the things of survival, the claws and teeth, the opposable thumbs, the enlarged cranium of Homo sapiens ascendance. What is survival of the fittest in the living room or on the StairMaster? What is the next step?
It's Christmas at the bottom of the swamp. An Alligator Snapping Turtle floats deceptively still, his jaws slightly agape. Tadpoles swim bewildered in the muck. The tips of waterfowl wings disturb the surface above, making the dim sky ripple. The pond pulses with Christmas cheer, the same gentle pulse it has all year long.
Hello, friends. I hope you're well. Are you?
Later. Love.
