As my darling sat in the swamp hoping the swans come in gunshot range, I froliced about in an innocent manner. Twas the second time I visited the swamp. The journey out is quite interesting. Lots of mud and water and sticky tundra ground. It's like a constant quick sand at every step. About a mile journey. Yet, when we arrive at our spot, I am immidiately overblessed with energy. Energy I shouldn't have after the exhausting suction at every step prior. Yet off I go in search of alder cones. They are, in my mind, a tiny immitation of a pine cone. And I've always had quite a fondness for tiny things. So of course I gather them. I pluck every one I see from every tree in walking distance. My whicker basket is wearing down so I lined it with a plastic bag to avoid any dropping through the rotting holes. And I filled it to the brim. Upon arriving home I stick them atop our woodstove and enlighten my home with the sent of the wild. Once dried I remove the seeds and throw them outside. All that is left- tiny dried alder cones, perfect for my many creative attempts.
