![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
If I had a rope and pulley, I'd enjoy the breeze more fully
I am experiencing inchoate feelings about New England, which if I am lucky will resolve in a poem and if not will likely persist until or through Thanksgiving. In any case, having received some ambivalent news in the afternoon, I went for a walk. I didn't make it into the Great Meadows proper because of the density of walkers, joggers, bikers, skateboarders, and one person on a kick scooter who had decided the weather was warm enough to forget about social distancing again, but I did get some trees.
Entering even the smallest stand of trees at this time of year makes me think of Angela Carter's "The Erl-King" (1979): "The woods enclose and then enclose again . . ."
I had no idea of the name of this stream which ran alongside the thin trail I was walking. I assumed it was some kind of tributary of Mill Brook. It disappeared through a stone-lined culvert under Fottler Avenue, which according to this walking tour distributed by the Friends of Arlington's Great Meadows strongly suggests it was Fottler Brook.
It flackered off behind a screen of bushes before I could get a picture of it, but I saw a squirrel as black as our cats, which made me so happy that I called to tell my mother about it: we had them in the back yard when I was growing up. I had been taking a picture of this gate, which I would not recommend ducking under, when I heard it leaping lightly but not soundlessly through the dead leaves.
Probably Fottler Brook, looking photogenically leaf-starred.
The Meadows themselves, as close as I got to them. They are a compactly diverse combination of swamp, marsh, and wet meadow, and I always forget the area was mined for peat in the mid-nineteenth century. To my knowledge it has turned up no bog bodies, which I really feel is letting the side down. Eleven years ago some acres of the dryer portions burned and my parents' yard filled with ash-fall like Pompeii.
Four teenagers were setting up some kind of video shoot on the path right where it widened into a yard and then met the bike trail; all were masked, some eccentrically costumed, and none of them thought to move out of my way. They were arguing as I passed about which one of them was best suited to play "the Boomer." While I was waiting to see if they would actually notice me, I took a picture of some nice lichen on a nearby tree with a better background than I had planned.
It turns out I didn't sleep through this morning's earthquake after all! I've just become so used to obnoxiously rumbly trucks idling on our street that I mistook our local plate tectonics for one.
Entering even the smallest stand of trees at this time of year makes me think of Angela Carter's "The Erl-King" (1979): "The woods enclose and then enclose again . . ."
I had no idea of the name of this stream which ran alongside the thin trail I was walking. I assumed it was some kind of tributary of Mill Brook. It disappeared through a stone-lined culvert under Fottler Avenue, which according to this walking tour distributed by the Friends of Arlington's Great Meadows strongly suggests it was Fottler Brook.
It flackered off behind a screen of bushes before I could get a picture of it, but I saw a squirrel as black as our cats, which made me so happy that I called to tell my mother about it: we had them in the back yard when I was growing up. I had been taking a picture of this gate, which I would not recommend ducking under, when I heard it leaping lightly but not soundlessly through the dead leaves.
Probably Fottler Brook, looking photogenically leaf-starred.
The Meadows themselves, as close as I got to them. They are a compactly diverse combination of swamp, marsh, and wet meadow, and I always forget the area was mined for peat in the mid-nineteenth century. To my knowledge it has turned up no bog bodies, which I really feel is letting the side down. Eleven years ago some acres of the dryer portions burned and my parents' yard filled with ash-fall like Pompeii.
Four teenagers were setting up some kind of video shoot on the path right where it widened into a yard and then met the bike trail; all were masked, some eccentrically costumed, and none of them thought to move out of my way. They were arguing as I passed about which one of them was best suited to play "the Boomer." While I was waiting to see if they would actually notice me, I took a picture of some nice lichen on a nearby tree with a better background than I had planned.
It turns out I didn't sleep through this morning's earthquake after all! I've just become so used to obnoxiously rumbly trucks idling on our street that I mistook our local plate tectonics for one.
no subject
no subject
You're welcome! I'm happy to be able to bring them to you.
- and for reminding me about "The Erl-King"; it might well be my favourite Carter.
It's close to mine, too. It's one of the great autumn stories.
Fottler Brook, what a name!
I can't find anything about who it's named for! It has to be an older name, like Mill Brook or Sickle Brook. I miss just being able to walk into libraries and town halls.
Here's hoping that you can make it into the Great Meadows soon - and also hope for a new poem.
Thank you!
no subject
no subject
"Away back in the seventies he was one of the first to conceive the grand idea of public parks for our city, and to no man, living or dead, is greater credit due for the establishment of our magnificent park system."
We're not near Dorchester, but he certainly sounds like the kind of person who gets waterways named after him.