fig. 087) est tempus fugit Fraxinus is a good hard wood at market but its leaves are wild. The ash almost always turns early in the autumn, surging bright and hot into the shorter cooler nights of fall. But the magic in them is gone. Instead, they're drunk on the juice of the summer's lilies and ferns that are scattered everywhere by the squirrels and the breast heavy log nymphs. Many of the trees are slack and thin with hangover and the house sits behind the wreck of their wobble drunk. Peeking through, it's tossed eves bang away in the long winds off the lake. The garage is poor in both it's purpose and execution but the less I say of this, the better. There's rotting wood that's ratty with bird shit and worm stuff. It's busy descending into the grass out front. The doors are gone and all of the windows are broke. The smaller rocks, the good throwing stones are inside with ache of the mildew that's spreading over the high birch paint along the with...