Thistles Shall It Bring Forth

To Graft

It’s cold out. The sun might make an appearance today, but February doesn’t often allow it. With knife and rubber boots, a hike takes me to the five-year-old mother tree. My stiffened fingers fumbling, I unfold the icy blade. Carefully carving, green skin breaks into white bone. I remove a dozen year-old branch tips with two or three good buds. I wrap them with plastic and return to the house to shove them into the crisper drawer under a bag of wilted lettuce. In a few weeks the seemingly dead wood will be grafted into a wild tree. It’s along the fence row and grows nothing but thorns.

It’s hot out. The clouds might make an appearance today, but August doesn’t often allow it. I walk through the garden, meandering toward the fence row. At the corner, a stump crowned with spined green boughs is the only thing along the fence that seems unaffected by the lack of rain. I place a thumb in the horizontal gash that remains. All four scions came out in July. I pulled them away, brittle and gray, revealing cracked lips smiling up at me.

To Brood

A dim buzz rattles the table. A woman on the phone tells me a package labeled “LIVE ANIMALS” is waiting for me at the post office. Grabbing my keys, I step out. The brown chore jacket I threw on isn’t enough to take the bite out of the air. Crunching across the driveway, I hop into the car. The winding road between the budding oaks and hickories descends into town. I find a spot in front of the weathered wood facade. I push the aluminum door. It scrapes and brass bells plink.
“Are they chickens?”
“Yes. Turkeys too.”
“They’ve been keeping it lively in here this morning.”
She hands over the cheeping box, wrapped in white plastic strands and cut with holes. Twelve tiny beaks reach out pecking at anything that moves. I secure them in the passenger seat and ascend back to the outskirts.

“Hopefully they’re not completely out of feed yet. They’ve nearly gone through a whole bag in twelve weeks.” The thick evening air beads on my brow. The katydids laugh as I plod through the woods. Crooked limestone steps guide me down the hill. I can barely see the tan wood and wire building. I search my pocket. I point the metallic light back into the woods. Are those flickering eyes or lightning bugs? I step up to the door and lift the latch. Inside, burst wire, wisps of striped feathers.

To Tend

When thou tillest the ground, it shall not henceforth yield unto thee her strength; a fugitive and a vagabond shalt thou be in the earth… And Cain went out from the presence of the LORD, and dwelt in the land of Nod, on the east of Eden… And he builded a city, and called the name of the city, after the name of his son, Enoch.¹

Fence lines, orchards, gardens, pens. I see them all passing by in a blur. The chilled air cuts off and the humming stops. Metal corrugated walls and sliding glass part as I pass to reveal pallets stacked with sagging polypropylene bags of layer crumble. The cart squeaks under the weight of a fourth bag. Green cardboard stand clad with rattling reflective sleeves. Carrots, radishes, beans, and corn, $2.78. Polyethylene crates over-filled with soil-covered potatoes. Why aren’t they grown from seed? The chrome-orange drink in the cooler catches my eye as I pay with my card. Chilled air returns and the humming starts. I pass through the front gate. Dust whirls around my feet. The pond is getting murky and the bees will need water. I’ll put out a dish when I feed the ducks.