By Michael Suchorsky

Like the arc of a light trail of an ember exploding from a holiday fire pit, an unusual curving contrail floats in the sky above the 7 spruce spires that rise 25 feet above the surrounding growth. My mind sings their names like Quasimodo introducing the bells of Notre-dame: Odessa, Sweet Marie, Fanchon, Syracuse, Amelie, RBG, Lieutenant Dan. I embrace the silence, just the pulsing song of a porcupine, the flickering vision of my observation of the muscular stealth of a hunting bobcat. These play in the forested surroundings as I recover from my first harrowing adventure into the southern realms of the state in maybe 18, 20 months— on a Labor Day weekend for maximum immersion.

I am thankful, thankful, thankful to be here in the quiet golden Summer of September.~