August 1984SIX-IN TEEN-OUT. SEVEN-IN TEEN-OUT.
Counting breaths. Trying to meditate through it.
I’m just over the west ridge at the edge of the sugarbush, out of sight of the house, the big barn, the outbuildings. A short crawl to the ridge in the light would reveal the high meadow, the vineyard, pond, all that rests in the arms of the ridges. But I will not go, will not look, in the dark.
Night descends with a vengeance. It is very dark. There is no moon, no stars. There is a wind. Cutting. Raw. Sometimes I can read the wind but I cannot read this wind. Heat lightning flashes to the west. I hunker down. At fields’ and orchard’s edge weeds and brush grow quickly, thick, to armpit height. Like a buck on his day bed, I’ve crushed a small area, left a thin trail, a single field of fire to
