Gentle hills roll into Appalachian razorback, ablaze with the fires of Autumn.
Silver rivers spill into mill valley streams.
At sunset, whitewashed steeples are kissed with pink. Their bells ring out, calling parishioners to evening mass.
Main street's quiet; the market, vacant. Lights are out at the general store.
No more visitors, the veranda's silent; round the barbershop's little door.
Past the courthouse, around the cenotaph, a giant tractor turns. The ungainly wagon piled high with silage, fresh cut for 50 head of herd.
Lost in the lengthening shadows of steeples and parapets,
the lazy wig-wag of his tail lights fade up and over the reservoir bridge.
In whose reflection Mt. Washington looms. The tranquil headwaters tinged in crimson, where the sun comes to rest upon a New England town.
Above the parkway toward the interstate, the forest closes in to meet me.
Up its hills and in its corners, glow cozy coach house inns.
As we climb into the sky, sawtooth peaks and ridgelines lay one onto the other.
Behind the bluing haze of twilight, and the gentle fog of night.
The road is mine, but I am not lonely. On this sojourn, solitude is a soul's companion.
Riding the peaks and valleys, where twilight blue fades to black; red tail lights wash in and out.
A lone tractor trailer downshifts, then descends out of sight.
A mile marker passes, then a sign for Vermont.
We've covered two states already, Maine to New Hampshire; and the night's only just begun.
(C) Copyright 2024 Seth Greene All rights reserved.
Journeymen by Seth Greene
Greene Development Media Inc.
Greyline House of Design
2024 in the United States of America
1st Edition
(C) Copyright 2024 Seth Greene All rights reserved.
