Yesterday the low clouds and misty air were whispering sweet secret songs to me so after the craft fair I went home for my camera and headed back out to the towns where I spent most of my childhood.
It's a delicate thing, taking photographs where people are passing, likely wondering why there's a girl standing on the side of the road with her camera pointed skyward. More delicate still is wondering if that house is occupied- it doesn't look so- and wanting to stop and aim the camera at the sagging roof, half-existent barn, and rusty bicycles, but not wanting to intrude.
And standing in the quiet of a warm, wet November day, leaves falling soundlessly around my boots, the damp making my hair wonder if it was born to be curly (it wasn't). The trees stand, black silhouettes against the heavy gray sky and I expected at any moment for a deer to step softly from the woods and look me in the eye. Not wanting to intrude.
A barn in Turner, Maine:
On the right side of this stream is the very wooded yard that was mine from 4th until 8th grade. I played at its edge with my brother:
It feeds into the northwest edge of Allen Pond.
This is the railroad that passes through Greene, heading into Lewiston:
We're in this stage between fall and winter where the trees are all bare, black and gray, and the ground is shades of tan and brown and hay. When you squint on a cloudy day, it's nearly all one color, and I never thought it attractive before. Not until yesterday. November has its own way of being vibrant; it's just being quiet about it.