The loon call so hauntingly transcends its purpose. The sound is full of eerie seeking, as of a lost soul for a lost world.
An acorn bonks you on the head, you think the sky is falling and race around telling everyone. But nothing bad happens. What version of Chicken Little were you told?
I need, and refuse to own, a navigational system with a robotic voice saying turn left here, go 200 yards, bear right, etc., etc. I am under the stars, benighted in the shallows, churning up mud, with time and tide running out.
The images of Christmas that came to us fused and confused geographies, histories, and iconographies: the stony, semi-arid, goat- and sheep-herding Holy Land with its jumbled, inhospitable terrain; the deep-forested European north, where the dire winter cold and darkness threaten to engulf the world forever.
I love, honor, and respect almost everything about Maine except its license plate. There is something abject about Vacationland, as though the state had no substance.
On the highway between Solon and Bingham, a sign indicates you’re exactly equidistant between the equator and the North Pole.
I fantasized about constructing myself some kind of nest and living up there, weightless, surrounded by the sun-dappled dancing of the leaves and looking down on life.