33
Wild Apples
The road began at the end of the ferry line and onto the coastal shores of rough edged Maine— The old boat building culture early fall mushroom growing time when we left.
First day, to the highland trail, along the branch of a stream, dry and no mosquitos. Slept in the leaf duff! Abandoned apple orchard! Forest road when the land was clear rock walls in every direction. Thinking about all the things people did here And we in the woods listen to a few owls who live up and along with everything who hunt the silent voles who live in the woods. And we fell asleep, as we had months and months before but then on the snow and under lower branches where we made a fire for tea.
In the morning, atop the hill, where we had been before and there was snow before but now the grass had already browned and the view was full of voluminous things, bursting forth with their last summer life yellowing edges on some of them out there.
Back down the trail with all our things and then onto the place we parked. Everything we owned in the back of the car still enough room to see out the windows.
And across the border of states, to the next New Hampshire, New York all the buildings receding from view and all the things to leave behind.
What do we really need? A flat place to sleep wild apples, and trees and the clean fall breeze.