Some combination of distractions–turning 60, having both of my sons at home over the summer, the superficial charms of Facebook–pulled me away from this and it feels like working a long-unused door to step out in this space again.
It’s fall in New England, and the skies are pure blue, the air deceptively warm, so that preparations for winter seem unnecessary, at the moment. A walk in the woods, baking an apple pie, these feel like the important things. Of course, hundreds of others had the same pie-picking thought, and the orchards had turned into parking lots. Never mind. The walk, which was in town on conservation land, and which looked like it would follow the river, did follow the river, but at a distance, so it was audible but not visible. Rather than a path, there was a broad swath someone had cut not too long ago with a big machine, so the space for walking was wide, wider than a car. In places it was damp and in others tufted. At one point I stumbled on a snake. It was so still I thought it was dead but underneath the straw and sticks I saw its head and it was apparently just drowsing in the afternoon sun.