porcupines.

they just don't give much of a F*.
i mean,
they're shy.
they're reclusive.
they're woods-dwelling spiky tree rats.
they're dope.
i mean it.
their gait is pure staggering swagger,
and their traits are pretty expert overall, anyway.
i take a relaxing car ride through the crackeriest creases of the
woodsly goodsly mountain passes,
and i keep seeing this one young porc' just pining away through the forest
for more borage to forage,
or whatever short leafy veggie it is that he actually eats.
i had my camera ready, but he eludes the focus, and he does so frequently.
check the blurry-butt-shot-type teleport:

awwwww.
it's like there's a teddy bear made out of stabs walking around.
a quill pig, neighbors.
that's what that is.
although,
that sh!t picture could just as easily be a turkey,
or a trash bag,
or a rotten last-year's pumpkin.
but it is my semi-friendly neighborhood hungry spiny javelin-beaver,
and that's no joke.
***********
i dunno.
it seems like work is eating my life,
and there are only these little moments between meals and bedtime
i get those glimpses into summery serenity for myself,
but only if i take time away from everything else once i'm done gearing up,
forging forward, and winding back down again, during the day,
and navigating around the hours leading toward and away from tattoo time.
a drive to the top of a mountain to watch the sunset...
a sit-down in the driveway to listen to the bugs and the bats battling...
(it's mostly tiny wingbeats, really)
a stroll through the garden in the deepening blue of nighttime....
that's what i get,
so i get as much as i can.
porcupines aren't any kind of super-fancy new hottness,
but they're not sweating it, or much else, for that matter.
i'll grab a hold of whatever good there is to grasp, kids.
even if it means puncture wounds for my trouble.
everything costs something,
and i'm still writing checks,
and losing my balance;
never quiet, never soft.....