I don't want to ever be considered one who disturbs the nature of things. If I died today, let it be known that I was a preservationist of all things chippy, rusted, and vintage. I don't know if this narrative would ever succeed me, or have the kind of credence I imagine. Maybe it should be my epitaph instead, written in stone to confuse everyone for the rest of time. I'm good at that; no need to stop.
There's a rusted yellow sink in a ravine downside the path I walk each day. It's the perfect shade of faded yellow, almost butter,
mixed with rust, almost nutmeg.
I wonder how the heck I'd lug it up the ravine. It has to be rescued, for only I can see it's beauty and possibilities.
I've been wondering for a year now. The perfect planter, chicken feeder, or it could just come live on the farm next to the rusty tub by the barn waiting for the special day to have a reason. Not all things are that fortunate.
Yet each day the yellow sink turns into sour grapes. It's imagined as too heavy, too rusty, and useless. Then today it dawned on me. I can't rescue this sink, it's habitat.
I can't disturb habitat.
It's like a sunken ship on the ocean floor possibly providing shelter for all things small and smaller in the woods.
I looked up habitat and not only is it defined as a shelter, it is a way to obtain food, water, and attract a mate.
It was then that I
pictured a little "do not disturb" sign hanging from the corner of the yellow sink and I thought, Who am I to disturb the nature of things?