Everything looks uniform out in the country here—red barn after red barn, sweep of mustard and corn fields interspersed with narrow feeder roads; four-way stop signs wreathed at the base with wildflowers. Noon boils dark asphalt; and you, not being local, wouldn't know what turn to make since there are none of the usual landmarks—no stand of oak or elm with one gnarled branch scarred by lightning, no signs beside painted wheelbarrows or rusted trucks. In deepest night, no row of lights curves from one post to the next. Nearer the water, summer cottages come alive during holidays: kayaks and row- boats, sunbathers on private docks. There are no fences between most house lots, and no one seems to lock their doors. It seems a sweet, untroubled place to be, as if untouched by grave history. When the meter reader makes his rounds, he says he has to knock, then step a little way back. Out here in this part of the country, he says, he can't count how many times dogs have been set loose on him, how many times he's looked down the barrel of a gun.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
