Morning Constitution

My morning constitution on our acreage (nearly one technically) involved the fondling of flora, libating with day old coffee, the digging of a corrugation in the herbal garden, and an offering of tobacco to my stalwart botanical companions. They've withstood the dubious weather conditions well, the digitalis in has a particular vibrant aura about it, perhaps because its poisonous, probably because its shade-sated. In my long leather coat with a large furry lapel I felt like Hildegard of Bingen, if she'd been dressed by Oscar Wilde and given 2cl of raspberry Mathilde liqueur by Henry David Thoreau and thusly schooled in living a solitary life on the precipice of civilization. (His family lived not a mile from his infamous shack. But no matter. His connection with nature was pure nonetheless despite the nearness of hot home-cooked meals and location of train tracks paces from his dollhouse dwelling.) I myself could hear the chirping sounds of my cheery five-year-old boy making the endless ne-nahs of fire engines and chu-chu-chu-chu-chu of military helicopters from the urtica dioica.