Yesterday evening we took Jessica to the Vestal Place. It was our first time up there this summer. It is dry…no water in the creek and the grass is not half the height of last year. More of the sheep shed roof has peeled back with the wind and the owls seemed to be gone, though maybe just hunting. Richard’s cows were grazing and even in the increasing wind came to hear John play his accordion or to stare at Jessica. I think she was telling them cow jokes. The place is as lonely and lovely as ever. What is it that creeps into everyone who comes here? Is it the aggregate of time polished and corroded surfaces, the evidence of weather gaining the upper-hand, the randomness of objects distributed by wind each the suggestion of a story, or is it the promise and terror of no outside disruption?