Feed the Trees

It is ten days later later, an inch deeper in rain water, and I’ve been punched with a fist full of exhaustion. I returned from an extended weekend in Vermont where I enjoyed times with friends, snowboarding and counting sap spigots in Maple trees as we drove home through the woods.

Opening my eyes, still heavy with sleep, I hoped find snow covered mountains littered with evergreens peering through my morning window panes. Instead I got an eyeful of the cardboard art project I hung carelessly on my wall to cover up the holes left from a failed shelving experiment.

I’m back in New York and back on the subway before I can reflect any longer on tranquil vistas. I’m sharing a subway car with too many people and cringing at the overly boisterous conversations between two lightly accented women who work in healthcare. They’ve only just begun their audible tirade on the “Mexican plague” in NYC when I realize that the subway train is being powered solely on nervous, uncomfortably energy.
This would never happen if I commuted with sap spigoted (non-bigoted) Maple trees.