Author

Little Switzerland

On a walk up a muddy road on a chilly November day, we pass a worn moss-covered sign nailed to an old pine that reads “… RIVATE … OAD”, reminding me of “TRESSPASSERS WILL… ”. At the top of the hill, we enter a cloud. It’s like walking around inside a dream. A single bare-limbed tree appears before us then dissolves into the mist. Our footsteps on the gravel, our voices, and even our breathing sounds muffled, once removed, but as we walk on, the distinction between where we are and who we are gives way to the line of woods gathering on the far side of the pasture, welcoming us home.

«

»