Spore Bearing

We live in a place of few seasons. Mostly we divide our weather into tolerable and intolerable. Still, once you’ve lived here a while you do begin to understand the forest’s cycles. Right now it’s burr time. Each August burrs suddenly erupt out of nowhere and before you know it we are all covered in them. I pick them off of myself, off of the dogs, out from between the sheets in the middle of the night, and even off of the deer. Whenever we’re not looking, their invisible little fingers reach out in desperation and cling to us as if their lives depended upon it. They lovingly and mistakenly attach all of their hopes for fertility, propagation, and connectedness to our indifferent ankles as if we were wormholes capable of transporting them through the farthest reaches of space. Well, we aren’t. In fact dear burrs, hooking your parasitic little hearts to mine will not result in heavenly symbiotic oneness. It’s not that I’m cold or indifferent to your mobility issues, it’s just that you’re all about going places, and I rarely go anywhere. Loren Eiseley in The Secret of Life said “let them ride. After all, who am I to contend against such ingenuity?” He’s probably right, and ride if you must, but honestly I think you’d gain as much ground attaching yourselves to a rock.