It’s a crisp spring day and the dogs and I visit a new path up the west mountain beside a sweetly chattering brook. Five minutes in, the path opened into a bright clearing which contains the remnants of a previous lifetime.
An algae filled dugout.
A caringly crafted doghouse.
A kitchen sink that still holds its bleached whiteness.
An eerily dark root cellar.
A precisely squared stone foundation wall.
Now elderly apple trees that once gave their fruit.
An imaginatively built outhouse.
A bullet ridden truck door.