The sun stood pale and low in the sky as I got into my car yesterday morning. Winding country roads took me inland, past birch and pine forests, through old mill towns. The mills themselves are empty. They languish in each town center, slouching in defeat. There is little money in the middle of this state, but there is water everywhere. It wells up from the ground, pools in each passing back yard and rushes in clear-brown streams. I snake through Newport and Dexter on my way to Dover-Foxcroft. The ground is soggy, the landscape green, gray and alive. I find my friend, Dana, sitting on a chair overlooking a silver lake. Her knee is swollen, puffy and blue-black, but she’s still smiling. We look out to the mountains beyond the lake and catch up. We are both in Maine for a short trip, and ours, happily, happen to overlap.
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