The fullmoon was shining that night, lighting up the path leads to my woodshed, whose roof is just discernible to the right.
It is indeed a butternut tree at whose base I am lying, one arm flung over my head and apparently rendering me headless - or nearly so. Either way it was a long chilly 30 seconds.
Butternut trees in this part of the world are very rare; butternut canker kills most of the pure ones. The hybrids, of which I am sure mine is one, are tougher but, well, they're not pure. So although not worthless to the breeding program to save the species, they are of lesser value overall.
Which is how I am somewhat feeling these days. I seem to have more in common with the tougher but less desirable hybrids than the much less hardy but more sought-after pures. Take from this what you will.
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