My Town

I live at the climax of a high, dramatic hill, which from an aerial perspective appears a soft, well-sketched nimbus. From the narrow trails above, the road sweeps itself, swathelike, down a rickety slope, through the slim channel between forest and forest. My home and its surrounding grounds are nearly eclipsed by the jagged majesty of the trees beyond; such confidentiality is a luxury I know few can manage.

Vehicles are sparse and bantam along this aimless stretch. Since I was the youngest of children, a sturdy girl cloaked in bangles and sullen ebonies (a passing fad which became my passion), I could walk with confidence upon the road’s center line, bereft of fear or angst. A comfortable ratio of one car per three to four hours is enjoyed.

My mother often apologizes for the relative seclusion in which I have spent my childhood. Although I understand her concern -she is a child of Lower Borough suburbia- I roundly refute any ascription of loneliness. Having never known another climate but for one of peace and solitude, I cannot rouse in my breast any sense of jealousy or craving. I have what I have.

I live at the climax of a high, dramatic hill, which from an aerial perspective appears a soft, well-sketched nimbus. Beneath the eclipsing dark which benights me so, I make my refuge among herbs and brushes, and my breath lilts and rustles the forest floor.