It’s 35 degrees, and I’m drenched in sweat in a bog. I stopped to take off my neck gaiter, and my parents glide along ahead of me, their backcountry skis leaving a slick, crystalline trail over the snow. The dogs frolic somewhere, the young one pouncing and pirouetting in her very best effort to get the older one to play.
Lovely. "My heart is the shape of..." is evocative. I use the phrase, "a fresh cut in my memory whittling stick" to describe the impact of a special experience. My wife and I live on part of a homestead occupied by her Polish immigrant grandparents in 1921 and carved out of former Yawkey Lumber Company cutover land. The vestiges of that time can be read on the land with a careful eye.
The edge of the wild
Lovely. "My heart is the shape of..." is evocative. I use the phrase, "a fresh cut in my memory whittling stick" to describe the impact of a special experience. My wife and I live on part of a homestead occupied by her Polish immigrant grandparents in 1921 and carved out of former Yawkey Lumber Company cutover land. The vestiges of that time can be read on the land with a careful eye.
Keep writing. You have a wonderful gift.