Thunder is rolling across the Oxford Hills and the foothills of the White Mountains. There is a nice breeze blowing across Sabbathday Lake and there is a light staccato of rain on the roof. Off in the distance I can here the faint, high pitched piping from the convocation of bald eagles that nest across the lake. Farther away still is the distinct tremolo yodeling of our resident family of loons. I can think of no other place I would rather be at the moment.
There is no television, and no mobile phone and Internet services unless I choose to turn them on. There is hardly ever a distraction and one day unspools just like its predecessor, and probably much like the day that will follow. The only thing that ever seems to change around here is the weather and the seasons. Otherwise I am happy to be here undisturbed with my pens, my brushes, and a pile of books to keep me company. Finestkind.
The Hungry Poet: Carrot Salad Edition
3 weeks ago