Act One. It’s October 8. We’re driving down Naskeag Road and a hawk – looks like it’s a broadwing – flies low across the road and into a deserted country lane. We follow and get out of the car near the beginning of the lane to search the trees. It’s sunny with breezes that chill the face just a little. Rustling leaves, most still green, arch over the lane in many places. They catch the light on one side of the lane and, on the other, create shadows that reach across it. We’re alone, except for a well-hidden hawk. But, we’re enjoying our solitude without the need wonder why.
Act Two. There’s movement on the lane about a quarter of a mile away, coming slowly toward us. We can’t make out what it is. It soon becomes a man of a certain age hunched-over his cane. He’s walking slowly, seemingly with difficulty. He comes on relentlessly, wading through pools of light and shade. His head is down; he apparently sees only the ground a few feet in front of him. He doesn’t see us.
Act Three. We worry about the proper thing to say when the hunched-over man reaches us. Then, we realize that he seems to be enjoying his solitude in his own way. We decide not to intrude. We get into the car, close the door softly, back up, and drive away. He never saw us. We regret not having talked to him. The hawk wins again.
(Brooklin, Maine)