The Wistful Grid
The first entry is dated October 14th. I am sitting in the back of the van, watching the mist roll off the Appalachian ridge. It looks like wet wool. I have three crates of *Acer saccharum* saplings in the back. They are not trees yet. They are potential. They are debt. I am a cultivator of green futures, a merchant of the arboreal. My hands smell of damp earth and diesel. I am tired. Not the...
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