A Maine Winter in the Woods of Monson

 

Lake Hebron is quiet now, winter approaching, the summer folk gone and the few hearty souls that stay year round settling in, content themselves in the quiet of the lake, firewood stacked, sweaters cleaned, foundations banked to ward off the cold of a Maine winter in the woods of Monson. Fewer trucks now rumble the hill of the camp road, Pleasant Street, now named and numbered, modern convenience in a rustic time and place, and the loons, the few lingering yet to leave, reluctant themselves, perhaps, as the summer folk lingered, delaying leaving themselves, wishing for “one more day, one more day,” the loons remaining still cry out and echo across the lake, their haunting cries unheard but by those few who stay as the temperatures dip and ice forms along the shore where the water joins the land. The fish there, down below, slow themselves, content in the winter approaching, prepare themselves now for the winter freeze, ice sealing off the lake above, the winter light below dark and black, long starless sky above them. And in the air wood smoke, acrid and sharp, rises in gray rivulets from the unsealed chimneys that remain, heat rising upward and outward to warm cold rooms, rooms dark in early morning rising, warm against the cold of an autumn night, lingering cold turned warm by crackling wood and snapping iron heating, expanding, warmth expanding to take us in, those few staying behind, winter approaching, the summer folk gone, settling in, content in the quiet of Hebron, a Maine winter in the woods of Monson.