…as I was reading John Connolly’s, Dark Hollow:

“An Old Man walks through the lush August grass with wood in his arms, brushing away loose bark with a gloved hand; an old man, tall unbowed, with a halo of white hair like an ancient angel, a dog stepping slowly beside him, older, in its way, than the man himself, its grey-beard muzzle flecked with foam, its tongue lolling, its tail swinging gently through the warm evening air.  The first patches of red are showing in the trees, and the clamor of the insects has begun to subside.  The ash trees, the last to unfurl their leaves in spring, are now the first to let them fall to the ground.  Pine needles decay on the forest floor and the black berries are ripe and dense as the old man passes by , at one with the rhythms of the world around him…” 

The next paragraph describing the ax in his hands, splitting wood, and I was there wishing for when that rhythm will resonate with us as people from away learning to be of Maine.