Above Hills Pond

This afternoon I climbed up to the granite-bottomed high ground above Hills Pond.  The rocky ledges dumped in the Ice Age are covered with a thick layer of pine needles; the trees drop their own protection.

The Jack-in the-pulpit flowers had passed but Solomon seal was up, and the plantain was thick and green; the Indians called it "white man's footprints," because it sprouted up wherever the English settlers walked. Apparently they brought it with them on the soles of their shoes.

Birds flittered among the branches, too quick for me to identify.  I passed a fallen tree, the stumpy end spurred with what was left of the roots.

As I reached the highest point a dog came running toward me, though the owner tried to direct it away from me.  It was honey colored, part Pekinese, I think, with that alert pointed face.  I put out my hand; the dog nosed me out.  There's been plenty of ill feeling in town about dogs off the leash. The owner was nervous, then relieved when I spoke affectionately to the dog, which was so clean despite the muddy woods and deep wet leaf mold--the trees were dripping, the rocks covered with slippery mist.  I was charmed to meet the smart, elegant, pretty dog.