Long cold nights mark November's return, grey rains fall, wind walks in the bronze oak leaves.
June in New England is like a lover's dream made tangible.
the tentacles of today reach out like an octopus to swallow yesterday.
Christmas is a kindling of new fires.
Old houses, I thought, do not belong to people ever, not really, people belong to them.
What would happen if all the populations on the planet simply refused to fight human beings they did not even know?