Summer will be over soon, the equinox is only three weeks away. winds from the North signal the impending change in seasons. the rustle of leave underfoot foretell the approach of autumn. Last night a cold gust caught me unaware. Winter, the coldest season of all hates to be forgotten.

A delicate butterfly bobbles against the August sky.
Its shoulder-high flight dodges cars and trucks on 1st Avenue
I pray out a warning to the danger
The butterfly soars above the traffic.
Preserving its beauty
And the hope for mine.

I want to write a short story combining my trips to Evans Notch, the Moose Bar and Grill, and Peter Gorr’s spooky mountain retreat. Lately I have been inspired by reading HP Lovecraft and sense the mysteries of the Other Side.

Our Boy Scout troop camped atop Evans Mountain next to the ruins of a stagecoach inn, a two-story wreck with a gaol in the damp basement. That evening the troop leader told a campfire tale of three Dartmouth students vanishing the night before the Thanksgiving of 1943. We went to sleep scared to the marrow.

As a teenager I checked the records from the surrounding towns without finding any information affirming the incident that although the East Village isn’t very conducive to traveling through dimensions other than with LSD.

Last night Alice was hurt by my staying out all night. Her decision to sleep alone drives me out of the apartment, despite loving me and wanting to share all her pleasures and woes. Once I woke, she said she had risen at dawn and watched me sleep for several more hours.

“Your chest rose and fell so gently, but your sleep seemed like too much a waste of the day.”