Care package…

Memories layered themselves in Tree-ear’s mind:

Crane-man’s willingness to discuss things with him,

the stories he told,

the mountain secrets he shared,

his reading of the world around them,

the way he loved a joke,

even at the expense of himself,

or his bad leg…

Another recollection broke through his thoughts,

like a fish breaking the surface of water…

“Wherever you are on your journey,

Crane-man,”

Tree-ear whispered,

“I hope you are traveling on two good legs…”

Then the tears came…

—in A Single Shard by Linda Sue Park

The Stanley Cup playoff run,

is an excellent time,

to develop awareness,

of boundaries,

or the lack thereof…

For example,

after last night’s win,

against Nashville,

I woke up,

from an early morning dream,

in which I was driving,

my big red car,

and the gas light,

flashed on…

I watched my worry,

but remembered,

that a Volvo,

is a car,

you can count on,

even when,

it’s standing still…

Just ask Mats Sundin…

The air was frosty,

morning traffic,

was building,

but I could see,

the Chevron,

across the intersection,

and knew,

there was,

enough time,

to get the job done…

The Canucks’ return charter,

from Tennessee,

should be landing,

at YVR,

right about now,

if it hasn’t already…

In honour,

of Saturday’s game,

at the Rog,

I’ve stocked,

my dehydrator,

with a spring harvest,

of fresh,

stinging nettles,

for the intents,

and purposes,

of broadcasting,

super food…

The steaming,

or drying,

of nettles,

neutralizes the poison,

that burns…

And when steeped,

the tea,

can be used,

for multiple purposes,

including,

but not exclusive to,

a refreshing,

hair rinse,

or as a soothing tonic,

for complications,

of the skin…

The other day,

Little Gem remarked,

Mama,

you haven’t made your buffalo jerky,

since last year…

It might be time,

to prepare,

another batch,

for round three…

Yesterday,

I led a horse,

out of his paddock,

for a therapeutic grass walk,

because he’s all ribby,

from over-work…

In that misty afternoon,

I was moved,

to a beautiful somewhere,

as the warm scent,

of horse,

mixed with the sound,

of a huge set of choppers,

filling a belly,

with sugar-rich greens…

As those people,

paid to report on hockey,

grow double chins,

from all of that room service,

and sitting on their arses,

gossiping,

and complaining,

like old fish wives.

about who is,

and isn’t producing,

on one line or another,

the men who are actually,

on the ice,

playing the game,

as it wants to be played,

through them,

are sticking to what,

they know best,

and loving,

every single,

minute,

of it…

And when,

you’re loving every,

single,

minute,

of what you’re doing,

there’s no telling,

what can happen,

except that,

the process,

is certain,

to be,

most excellent…