That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun...
Along the gravel paths, the trees have been meticulously labeled, scrawled by a volunteer’s bold pen on wood that has been cut, planed, and sanded smooth. The air smelled vibrant. As we approached Simmons Pond to the calls of the flitting few wintering birds, we met a gentleman fishing for trout. “They stock the pond, and I caught one.” On a tether in the water was a shiny, vibrant trout, swimming in place. “If I catch another, I’ll take ‘em home for supper; one for me, one for my wife. And I cook ‘em maself. If I don’t catch a second, I’ll throw that guy back.”