I have not been in Asheville long. I have been here exactly long enough (and at the right time of year) for the bed of my truck to fill with with a solid two inches of leaves from black-walnut and maple trees.

The leaves disperse themselves across any surface that will house them, and I trudge through them on a brisk(er) morning.


Mike Cannot Help But Crush Them


It sort of sounds like some kind of giant ogre masticating an ogre-sized meal, open-mouthed and gross. (I promise, it’s not actually a giant ogre, and I would totally reveal it here if it was) As it the way of the season, the sound of a black-walnut falling onto the aluminum roof of a shed resounds at 15 seconds with a dull clunk. I speculate that being under such a nut would be painful if not dangerous, though my theory remains fortuitously untested.

Crickets are in the background because crickets are always in the background. The sound not present but conspicuously absent is the thwack of a hammer find home in the head of a nail, or the bird-like revving of a table saw terrorizing some innocent board.

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