Moving Along

On our afternoon ride to town, Sam and I notice that it seems to be a day for crows walking. Around several turns, we slow and wait while they determinedly hop out of our way, or, as best they can, run alongside the road. 

What we would give to be able to fly! And maybe that’s walking, for crows – the more impressive way to get around. Any old bird can move through the air, but to dominate the ground, too? These are the alpha crows, masters of sky and earth. 

Some days lately, the walking crows move faster than we do, as we wait for giant machinery to rebuild Route 1. Locals and tourists alike – sometimes it looks like a 50/50 split – sit baking on new blacktop, not far from yellow-vested roadworkers who most definitely have more to complain about.

They’re a summer novelty to me, these traffic jams in a place where, three months from now, I’ll pass six cars in nine miles, driving home under cover of 5 p.m. darkness. I soothe myself remembering traffic jams in Los Angeles, or Boston, or Dallas – cars stacked three or four lanes across and bumper to bumper stretching toward the horizon, like one giant train with 5,000 engines.  

For this, I think, we got rid of trains?

For others, our miles-long backups are less novelty and more travesty. Summer in Washington County is short enough as it is. Who wants to spend more of it in traffic? 

I recall Augusts in warmer, slower climates where I’d shut the curtains and turn up the air conditioning, the better to block out the endless sunshine and usher in the Fall. 

Driving home from the last day of the wild blueberry festival, no traffic – or crows – of note, we tried to ignore the chill for several hours before admitting we were cold, and lighting the woodstove. Fall always comes close on the heels of the festival, but never before quite so close as to be measured in hours. 

 Maine seasons need no urging from me to move along.