On Sodom Pond

Postcards from rural Vermont

To Wales

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I have arrived: amid thunder grey and sheep and green. Roads and narrow lanes wind through hedgerows and cottages. Thirteen Americans clutch Dylan Thomas readers and  candy bars and water. Worn out but not tired, we creep up the combed and pleated hillsides. How do cows graze on a hill? Where are they taking me and will I ever get out? Cloud, chimney, roof, hedge. We sigh at what we see, the frenzy of air travel fading.

To reach your destination is triumphant and humbling. There is no more wondering.

Here I am.

Let’s begin.

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