Racing through the cobblestone streets and up the stairs, only to find moonlight stretched across the ticking.
Atop the flagpole was not a gleaming gold ball, but four sullen electronic eyes.
Each foreclosure leaves behind a sad, cold house.
Out of the purple spring-dusk, the witch hazel flew up, carrying a bird.
The warm light of late afternoon falls upon Caroline and the Big Tree, on the ridge of Neutaconkanut Hill.
The orange light of a winter night.
I looked up, and one leaf from the giant Norway Maple let go against a brilliant sky of medium blue. Saying good-bye on a perfect day.
Serengeti dreams, walking though a New England Winter.
The meat is sweet, the shape is pleasing. Summer in the country!
Would she respond by saying, "You're looking for a fight," or might she laugh along with it?
Where once we flew, now a place for contemplation.