Dylan Fettig

By Gum

Can there be a difference between a Chickasaw Plum and a Cloud-9 Dogwood? See, this time of year, they both seem like hardy raw obelisks, caked in frost. But as the trees bloom and engreen, the space of their discrimination too blooms between them—prime real estate, the target of bidding wars (perhaps the future site of a resort hotel?).

Once, in this modest place, there were no tinkering dweebs. Now heirs arrive in droves, waving claims to birthright—and terse, cocksure legislators honk at the tip of each twig.


A little bit every day adds up to a big bit. But if you can’t keep a sprig of rosemary green, how could you keep a beautiful wife satisfied?

Some things, like garbage pickup—those buckets are still out there! Brimming with brackish nectar!—are beyond your control. Neighborhood authorities mutter about the smell. And the rat complaints … at least it’s something for the lushes at the bar to whinge on that isn’t the airline racket.

On days like this, when the snow is getting gray, and every drink tastes watered-down, I’d trade my good boots for a shot at the big time.


It was worse than watching lasagna explode in the oven. The lawyers will clean most of that up, and the rest can be diverted through a series of channels and troughs.

I think the dawn is cold. The botanist shows his fierce young charge some distinctive markings, which bulge inappropriately. Her mouth twists up in a quiver. What could be better than to save a few wounded newts, get them home to their logs, where they could die of something older than all of us, die of the cold in their own cold blood?


Please, dear, take me away. Surf me to your virtually secret beach. I want to be churned into butter. I want it to be less distressing than I had expected.

On the pristine shore, some hundred yards down and well out of earshot, a white dog buries a whole bleached skeleton. Some women have stamped down some brush—put more simply, we remain in their debt.

Staring out into the vast seas, as we often lately do, we think of their sacrifices. The surf churns the sand and the whitecapped waves together. It all looks a lot like refried beans and sour cream, the levers of an ancient yearning.

Dylan Fettig lives in Brattleboro, Vermont. A recent graduate of Bard College, he is currently occupied by tree identification, questions of animal consciousness, and the afternoon.
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