by Russell Rowland
A lot of the summer traffic boundfor the White Mountains passes through here.It stops at the lights downtown,and soon is backed up to New Jersey,seemingly. Heat rises off cars: they shimmerlike the mirages they probably are.That old Dane said “purity of heartis to will one thing.” July vacationers wantone thing. It looks less like puritythan obsession. Hearts such as minewish something else than what these pilgrimsare after, with their bike racks, boatson trailers. Our hearts hang aroundcellar holes, stone walls, untended graveyardsdeep in the woods; follow dirt roadsbetween oaks to clearings in whichnothing happens. We are gone all day, thencome home, acorns in our pockets.Usually, we are alone someplacewith hawks, coyotes, spirits; where squirrelsdon’t lose to oncoming cars.