Curled and curling.

Tonight I battle back against meanness, resolve once again to refuse diminishing.  Some things I don't see coming until I'm in them, by which point there's no way out.  I will not allow myself to be so soured.   

Several times this afternoon, I tracked out into the mud to try to see these ferns that are furling right outside my office.  On my first try, the gutters above me soaked my back as I bent and crouched; on my second try, the camera's battery gave up.  Both times, I proceeded to track mud into the officehouse with me--just when we've finally stopped dragging mud in from all corners of the nearby ground.  Nothing quite gets all the turns and whirls of these massive ferns, which make their way despite the nonsense that's happened all around my building this year.  They make their way; they curl out their tiny fineness.