The rabbit hops away from us.
When we reach the space in which it was feeding, we can see the soft indentations left by its hind feet.
The air smells of thunder and torn clover.
We pause by the brook and comment on how low it is, the current barely a flicker of silver over the muddy bottom.
Bear tracks abound.
A Warbling Vireo flies out from the still-bright goldenrod and studies us silently.
When we walk, she talks and I listen attentively.
Sometimes she is given to silence, and I listen to that, too.
We pass the wild blueberry, stopping to admire how thoroughly the robins and grackles have stripped the bushes.
Ferns rise in both hay fields and something invisible stirs amid them: baby turkeys perhaps, possibly grouse.
There are leaves already turning.
We experience longing before we have a name for it.
The work - my work anyway - is to find what goes before language and make contact with it.
Sustained contact, helpful contact.
Near the cemetery we spy a deer, its eyes already fixed on us and even after almost half a century of seeing them, I still catch my breath.
She says it looks like a doe, which I confirm.
There are no fawns visible, which saddens us a little.
We walk quietly then through the cemetery, feeling a cool breeze from the north and west.
Rain is coming and we turn our faces against it.
We walk home past crab apple trees and faded tiger lilies, nibbling bitter fruit, lost in our own thoughts, and every once in a while holding hands.