mud.

my name is mud.
my road home?
like, for real,
the sloping dirt drive that leads to the Fortress?
yep.
also mud.
the coffee in my mug?
you guessed it:
mud.
it's dirty and it's mixed with moisture,
and it's a slow death by quicksand in the mire
and lack of hot fire that's fizzling out the fusiliers' fuses,
so that everybody loses,
in the gray gaytardation of a supersaturated sloppy
morning mess that indicates without question
that summertime has segued into bummer-time,
staring now.
ugh.
i'm sayin', neighbors,
there's a whole lot of wetness all around me-
just not in the grown-up figurative sense.
get it?
c'mon.
awwwww, man.
*
it's been one soggy-bottomed diaperbaby mess
of a weekend in the woodsly goodness.
that's only ever good for one thing, y'all.
myconic icon teleportational activation?
check it:

dope!
you can't stump nature.
umm, right.
rot monster fruits live up in the decapitated trunks of trees!
fact.
i love northern new hampshire,
and i love the woodsly goodness.
for realsies, kids.
i DO like stuff.
.....just not a lot of stuff.
driving down rural tree-canopied wooded mountain roads,
tramping along country-style hard-packed earth,
or stomping across soft slimy mud?
more often than not,
these days,
being out and about and amongst and amidst
the soil and the stones is exactly how it all really happens.
true story-
early september gets poppin'.
the idea is that everything good is happening underfoot.
so keep your head down,
not in ambivalent anonymous avoidance,
but in active participation.
look up, and you'll miss the forest's floor-to-floor flora,
and fecund fauna, flourishing in full effect, all around us.
watch your step,
and walk with purpose;
never quiet, never soft.....