Urban din recedes in anticipation of approaching quiet; homeward bound vacationers whish south in reluctant pursuit. Tires clack-clack on expansion joints as Molly Pitcher offers a garden of rest. “Push on, push on,” cried ancestors in covered wagons as winter’s snows crept near. But here, now, summer falls away in flittering drops of leaves and Autumn’s temperatures bring relief from insects, heat, and labor. A pause as Yoshi stretches his paws, then push on, push on.
At main road’s end a turn. A moment’s respite to visit dusty Lazy Tom Bog. Just beyond, the gravel logging road splits. Nineteen miles and another turn. Three miles along a narrow, grass-covered path. Trail’s end finds Spencer Pond in all her glory with Little Spencer Mountain smiling in reflection. Loons wail soulful welcomes as sunlight dims into dusk. Why does the heart cry with happiness?
On the horizon, clouds. In my eyes, weariness. Spreading tarps, hammering stakes. Stars wink out by twos and threes and wind ripples waves onto grassy shore. Yoshi rests beside me.
From night fall raindrops
bursting notes on canvas sing
lullaby, good night