by Robert P. Barsanti We arrived before the storm. It had spun up off the east coast of Florida, knocked some sea walls down, then aimed to the west of us. The ferry alarmed the ducks and the seagulls as it crossed the Sound, slipping under the deep purple clouds, […]

At eight in the morning, the bride was running down Main Street along with her photographer, her maid of honor, her intended and two other guys in tuxedos. She was carrying her shoes in one hand, the hem of her dress in the other. She was flying on the wind of social media but the photographer wasn’t keeping up. You have got to get the light when it’s just right.

The two girls sat at the bench, waiting for the NRTA. One held her chin on her fist, the other leaned back and took in the passing traffic. They had been tanned, bleached a bit, and had absorbed as much of the island as they could. They wore jeans, strappy little sandals, and carried three suitcases each. Their summer was ending.

In an idle corner of Massachusetts, Route Two dips along the Connecticut River for a moment, rises to a point in Turner’s Falls, pauses at a flashing red light, than just as fast swoops past Greenfield and out into the the hills of the Berkshires. At the light, a gas station has spread across one corner, a snow mobile dealership goes out of business on another, and a Polish food truck opens on the weekend. On the last quarter, a growth of trees spreads along the high bank of a river forested until Route Two turns into Greenfield. I spent an afternoon amid all of those trees and rocks.