A pretty little prose poem in a nature-y sort of vein
|Vermont's up to its knees in them, or so my father and the side-of-the-tracks town told me when june was in heat and the moon had her fingers in us. When we (and by we i mean the they i wanted a piece of) stripped down to our mountain best and gilt our eyes with mica.
Water straight out of the river gets you sick quicker than that pulled through copper pipes and we all sit quiet on this for a moment while clouds tangle in the pines. Sigh, press, release and drain the kayaks, putting heels to gunwales as our boys eat the mountains.