The fence needs replacing.
Ours is not a climate suited for wood. Yet, like so many scrabbling ants, we raise our structures and see them fall and raise them once again.
I want to write more one day of what I’ve found in the backwoods, of the small, surprising remnants of other lives, other stories.
The rotten shells of old cabins will sometimes return to the earth before a child’s doll or a rusting tin cup, haphazardly wedged under a rock.
Ours is not a climate suited for wood. Yet, nearly every structure here has a skeleton of beams and ridge-poles, their strength slowly being sapped by the forces around them.
I would tell stories I think of those lost towns, now grown over. Of those old mining and logging and fishing villages, whose passage is only marked by a slight rise in the moss where the central buildings stood.
We build over these ghosts beneath our feet, repeating the same failed steps only to be built over ourselves.
I wish I could read more stories with that conscious sense of our repeated history.
I wish I could write more stories that capture the cycling beneath my feet.
The fence is falling and needs to be replaced.
The snow and the sky press down, unchanged.
The weight of history weighs heavily on the present.
My own pursuit of both history and cycles can be seen here in my fantasy novel,The Guests of Honor. It is available here.