In the distance a row of fishing shacks mark the border between field and forest. Winter will see these dwarven houses scattered on the frozen bay. Until then they wait in uneasy solitude on spans of green waiting for the ice and snow. Rolls of hay are strewn haphazardly about the fields like giant building blocks left out forgotten at the end of the day. The gnats swarm the road in random clouds. Grasshoppers’ wings with white edged matador brown capes spread in the wind. Dragonflies dog my steps playing chicken with my feet.
I can see open stone sheerly veiled peeking through the trees. Naked and close to the wind a millennium breath raises her breast to the surface bared granite and marble skin. The lakeshore is speckled with cottages, vegetable gardens edging the gravel road. The growing season is shorter here. The leaves of the trees have already begun to change while the tomato plants hang heavy with still ripening fruit. Toads sunning on the road leap into the underbrush their long legs dangling out behind them.This is someone’s road home they travel it everyday. Do they see the rock outcrops and clouds hung from invisible cables low in the sky? Or do they just see the road home?
The path leads off into the woods. It is cool under the trees. The course is winding and uneven. Past the hanging salt blocks there is a hidden jewel, blue and sparkling in the sun. The flat plain is stabbed by thin spikes of dead trees and beaver chewed stumps. The dams describe a three corner boundary dividing the forest from the water. The soft green of lily pads gild that liquid cerulean mirror. The soft mud tells a tale of midnight visits by bears, raccoons and deer. Long thin leeches wind their black sinuous ways on unknown errands round logs and reeds. A baby blacksnake sunning on the path shies into the underbrush as it senses the vibration of passage.
The sun beats down on this secret oasis. The demise of this dream is inherent in its own nature. This small pond, choked and narrowed by the industries of nature, will in the end cease to exist. The water will fill and the forest will take root. The reeds and lily pads will give way to aspen, pine and beech. The day will come when this place exists nowhere else but in memory. Painted in broad strokes it will remain forever ageless and shining jewel-like in the northern skies of the mind’s eye.