Spattering of almost-snow on the windshield.
Derelict barns, old pastures gone to brush.
A few horsey places with megahouses,
a small organic farm. I’m a Vermonter.
I know that all back roads sooner
or later lead to somewhere I recognize.
This one—a self-selected detour
around construction on the highway
between the hospital and home—winds through
vaguely familiar land. I know I’m heading west.
It’s still the Valley, my valley.
And here around the bend a cluster
of houses, and beneath the clouds I see
the mountains and the long lake’s gleam.