Making Stories

% Dec 2005 Chester, N.J.

I heat water over a fire beside a creek. It wobbles to a boil. The wood smells like warmth, so I feel it in my mind. My fingers are still cold. The blaze is a small tool that I don't want to show everyone. With a cutting from a down maple branch I mash coffee beans in my cup. The oils from the rich beans make promises. I believe them. In four minutes I push down my homemade press into my double wall titanium 16 oz. cup, and unscrew the center rod.
This is home. I sit where the snow has not stolen over the leaves, against the root of a tree. The java is too hot to drink. It doesn't matter. We are old lovers at seven in the morning, and we are patient. Less than an inch from my mouth, the cup talks to me abut memories, and places we've been. I can smell the heady beans curl in the steam. We will sit like this for five minutes. She is so close to my mouth, but she knows that I have to wait, or I will taste nothing. The whole cup will go into me, and I will still be wanting this flavor if I sip too soon.
The snow will melt near my legs. A few crows will discover me and tattle to every creature that cares. The road through the trees will increase its pulse before I can taste. It doesn't matter though. This is where I am supposed to be. I am as unhurried as the trout in the brook. All that I know is that I am swimming downstream. I can tell you about the smooth stones. The currents and eddies are as familiar as songs from my childhood. I could sing them to you. Do not ask me the day. Most likely I will guess it wrong. Do not ask me how silly the state of politics are. All that I know is this current of movement, coffee that will also flow into me, small animals that begin to share their stories, and secrets. It is time for coffee. Snow melts to come again. I watch geese, and wonder if one will fall from formation to wait for me.