once upon a time in the woods

Late October and early April days often seem the same in Iowa. With the green gone—or not quite back—the sun and the wind break all the way through barren limbs and it smells like dirt. The slanted light and earthiness remind me of similar days in New England. I miss the woods, and I miss the stone walls.

My sister and brother and I explored the walls all around our old, old house. We marched on top of the sturdier segments but mostly scrambled over the tired, misshapen, now-meaningless markers. We built forts around them, conquered them. The ants and beetles found refuge, and we found the edges of our wooded world.