I am the dad of Jack. The forces of the universe vex me. Mother Nature and her children conspire against me. In my hand is a powerful Stihl. Nature is all else. Her daughter weather, casts a steady rain down on me. The throwline is wet, the fingers slip. Her son the majestic Willow Oak grabs the first throwbag and takes hostage. The second throwbag meets its target. The line is set, the ascention is effortless. The natural redirects disappear as if to taunt me , or warn me to walk away while I still can. The brother and sister conspire to make the arms of the Oak like ice. The work positioning is poor. I combat the forces with the Mumford On Bight Redirect. Gravity weighs on me like the force of the earth and the tides of the sea. Alas I cannot achieve my goal. He who writes checks does not believe in the option of failure. Money is to be made, jobs are to be done. From the office chair, the elements have no bearing on the day of the dad of Jack. The limb is tied with the fibers or man, the chemicals melded together. Ions, matter, molecules formed in a unnatural color of twisted yarns. The saw screams, the blood of the Oak flies, the limb tears in an effort to soften the blow. The gutter is damaged. The dad of Jack knew better. The pressure of he who writes checks has overshadowded the judgement of the villain of the tree. The job is done. Dad of Jack is solemn as he strives to protect that which man has built. He has failed in his own eyes but the check will be written. Invisible communications traveling unknown paths through the air advise the oversee-r of the damage. He wishes to cut the head off the Dad of Jack. Fortunately 3 weeks of overdue pay has been delivered and no taxation is possible for past monies earned. The future pay is uncertain, and perhaps a 2 week notice will be delivered. The bid was unclear. In the words of the brother of the boss, cut back from house. Such words have no meaning, no direction, no clarity. Certainly we will have to go back and do more. This is the path of the world. Plupping through the canopy, the mighty oak makes one last effort to thwart. The cheek is bruised. The face is bleeding. The Mighty Oak tastes the blood of it's foe. Nature has had her last laugh. The cells of the tree, the moisture of the rain mix with the blood of man to leave its mark on history. Leave its mark on the foe. The gutter looks like shit. The gear is wet. The dad of Jack is over it.
