He likes the clutter of this place, the way everything goes to back porch, rust or seed.
Rain runs down the sharp edge of the boards like strong tea brewing in a bucket.
Time mouths the rims of blue bottles and reminisces with Prince Albert tins. He remembers this ridge when trees grew close as toes in a shoe, and puzzle pieces of sky failed to outgrow the leaves. Now neighbors burn off balsams, poke and fox grapes, while he hoards pine cones as big as quart jars. He recites his recipes for table beer, milk punch and raisin wine. He hoped to get rich choosing the right crop, always choosing wrong between Early Rose and Peach Blow potatoes.