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  • Yesterday, before the snow returned, I walked deep into the woods. To hear the quiet. To find the wild. To get away.

    I knew, of course, that any notion of wild was all in my head. I knew I might well come across an old stone wall, a cellar hole, an old car or wagon, for although eighty percent of Vermont is wooded, just a hundred or so years ago, eighty percent was farmed. Just as the wild weaves itself through the fabric of our old farm, the old farms thread their arms through the woods.

    But to come across five gravestones in a peaceful glade well off trail? Worn smooth and growing lichen and mosses? So beautiful and so strange?

    I sat for a moment contemplating the people whose lives and deaths were marked here by stone; I thought of the forest creeping across field until it held them, brought home stone and body, breath and song. And then I moved along, farther, deeper into the woods, feeling their stories grow soft and loamy behind me.
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