Notes From a Small Pond: Masks

There’s a spot on the walking path along the north side of the river, west of the trestle, directly across from where my brother works on the trains that bump back and forth between there and Sappi, chugging away like determined old ladies, where, on clear days, the late afternoon sun pours through the 93 million miles and dapples coolly through the twinkling leaves, raining down dappled jangles of white light, glinting.

Autumn hints.

If you pause there, you’ll smell what must be the leaching of chlorophyll and traces of dirt from evaporating mud. And you’ll think, for sure, you’ll see a turtl...