Henry on a cold, cold morning driving on a frozen lake, his 1963 BMW doing figure eights and cluster fuck spins. In the trunk there was a bow with arrows wrapped in sack, soaked in petrol for a some flaming arrow action later that night.
The forest a backdrop to the lake, a picture washed in sepia and bronze light, the leafless tree limbs and twigs accentuated the scene, symbols of nature, graphic color like you would see in Jackson Pollack painting.
He loved the aroma of the forest, burning leaves, melting coconut butter, fresh grass shoots, deer musk.
Henry didn’t hunt game, preferring pyrotechnic stuff that tantalized the senses, shooting flaming arrows at night, sometimes he would attach Cherry Bombs or flares, creating an outrageous light show with sound.
Later Henry went to town for a drink— Walden, Maine a small town with a Maple Syrup mill and a L. L. Bean outlet.
Antler was a bar where Jack Kerouac hung out in the seventies. You could find all types of people there, bikers, priest, poets, bums, business men, all with their heads submerged in their drinks and not one of them wanting to talk about Kerouac.
Henry at the bar eyed a gal with dreads and feathers in her hair, approaching her he asked what here name was. Her name was Sparrow, she was a poet.
She invited him back to her place, she lived in a cabin near a cornfield. After a few drinks he lit Cherry Bombs and Roman Candles almost setting her cabin on fire. She told him to get the fuck off her property and never come back. Henry made a big impression on her
Just another day he thought.