| This dirt and this air November 4, 2003 White morning light comes through trees, incubating my thoughts and heating the fog that settled overnight. The Quabbin waters lie still as I move around them, yet the underwater villagers will not cease their chatter, like the spirits in the Hardwick cemetery, faces covered with black hoods, but eyes aglow with life. Butts of cornstalks poke from chilling soil, reminders of the past, directions to the future. In between is this place that I�ve dreamed of, this dirt and this air. I walk, but I cannot move forward any more. The fading sun reflects off a still swamp. A desperate chipmunk dashes across the road. The day is lost, but this moment and this place are mine. |