Point the hood of the truck to the north.
North on the Ferry to Woods Hole.
North towards Boston.
Route 495. Overhead, to the north, are cold weather clouds. The season is changing. Fickle New England weather.
North towards Vermont.
Distant mountains appear.
North where there will be sunrise through an attic window.
Where a walk nearby beckoned.
Sabin’s Pasture, Montpelier, Vermont.
In a field where overhead, sixteen geese flew.
More geese follwed these. They filled the sky with honk.
Then a day came of monochrome grays.
Forest lake, Woodbury, Vermont
A day of muted sky colors and reflected symmetry.
Somewhere in the Woodbury, Vermont area.
The day to leave came.
That morning the hood of the truck pointed here and there, passing through Montpelier.
Weekday rush hour, Montpelier, Vermont. In Montpelier, rush hour pedestrians do not scurry in hurry. No. They amble.
Then appeared a number on a sign.
Eighty-nine.
Eighty-nine headed off, through misty mountains.
When I was little, I had never seen mountains before. When I was little, when I drew pictures of mountains, they looked like this.
Through misty mountains, eighty-nine headed south.
So did the hood of the truck.
I especially like the sentence “They filled the sky with honk.”