Many times and places have combined to embody my ideal New England scene. It always comes down to an island in summer, perhaps Martha's Vineyard, perhaps Vinalhaven or Mount Desert or elsewhere in Penobscot Bay. I find myself walking, early in the morning, soon after dawn, along a path where the vegetation has closed in and fans over my head. The birds are moving in the branches. I can hear chickadees, song sparrows, yellowthroat warblers, goldfinches.
Sunlight filters greenly down through the still-crisp leaves.
In the distance surf rumbles. Beneath my feet the soil is moist, dark, and yielding, and the air stings my nostrils with the scent of blossoms and salt. I hope to walk unhurriedly through these mixed alders and swamp maples and, as I round a turn, emerge into a grove of acacias where the sun can penetrate more easily through the leaves to dry the dew on the white sand that begins to purr beneath my feet. A pair of mourning doves flies up, wings whistling faintly. The surf continues to murmur in the distance as I emerge into full sunlight, but no habitation stands nearby.