Standing on the bridge that crosses
The river that goes out to the sea
The wind is full of a thousand voices
They pass by the bridge and me.
Maryland’s air was crisp and the ground crunchy from fallen leaves. Persimmon’s yellow and shriveled on the vine left earthly scents in our noses and the spent cornstalks left in the garden made great hiding places, stamping them down to form a circle and in our mind was a fortress impenetrable in our play army games. The nights cool and clear and the sounds from flocks of birds heading to their winter homes and the bay even seemed quieted though the industries across it were still spilling smoke from stacks. She loved those evenings; she loved her world there at the Point where the land ends. Sitting under a chestnut tree watching a lone barge inching its way up the river and under the bridge and out away from view.
With the sun sinking in the distance across the bay, she knew she would be called in the house soon and she probably could go on her own without being told, but she needed to stretch all of the daylight out as long as she could and sitting there fiddling with the hulls of the chestnuts and absorbing all the sounds and smells that this wonderful time of year brought, felt necessary.