This must be the place: ‘In the woods from far away, from across the fields and pastures, in the cool misty morning air’
Hello from atop the roof of my parents’ 1840 brick farmhouse. Some 20 feet up on the back end of the structure. It’s hot as hell walking across the old roof in the midday sunshine and heat of early summer in the Champlain Valley of Upstate New York.
This must be the place: ‘And I thought that I’d found a light to guide me through’
A soothing mid-fall breeze floats across my front porch, through the screen door and into the apartment, ultimately swirling around the writing desk facing a bustling Russ Avenue within sight.