TIME AND SPACE IN NEW ENGLAND
Driving in Vermont looking for old barns to photograph, stop to talk to a farmer who finally says he has to get some work done before the bugs. He means
Mayflies, a curse on sky-clad witches reminding us with a New Englander's pursed lips to not become overly enchanted with what spring offers. Two miles down the road an old woman sitting on her porch waves her cane at me. I wave back. She's more resonant than church bells,
and more subversive. A swarm
of something burns in the shadow
of my much-fingered thoughts.