It is cold, and getting colder.
It's strange, being here again. The towns never change. The houses never change. Some have lights on their porches and trees. They are tired, and grim, and their lights seem sad rather than joyful.
But mostly it's dark. There are hardly any street lamps out here, and they don't do much to light anything.
The days are cluttered with fat bellied rain and snow clouds that fly across the sky, and the sun sinks below fiery horizons.
There are strange noises, in the woods at dark. You can feel eyes on you, most nights.
Being here in this town, these small villages bleeding one into the other, I am reminded of a friend from my college city pleading with me to go to the doctor. After she heard about me hallucinating dark shapes, my mild psychosis prompting me to paranoia, walking with a knife out after dark.
"You could be dying," she said. "Please." She wasn't wrong/
I'll be going to the millpond, fairly soon.
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