New Hampshire and some other places

For two days, I am back in the mountains. We are hiking and exploring and drinking beer and doing nothing at all. Two days back in the woods that I always long for — it feels like going home. It feels like home in its beauty and comforting sounds and in the miserable biting bugs and burning sun and exhausting climbs.
Vultures rise languidly from a forest of rolling green that stretches to the horizon. It is morning and they are catching the first rising columns of warm air as the sun casts its gaze on the land. Fall is in the air. A chickadee is hammering a seed into the trunk of a hemlock; to be returned to in the coming months when the forest is painted in shades of grey and white and food cannot be found. Broad-winged hawks are just beginning their epic migration (of the millions) south; today the first few trickle through the valley, flashing their banded tails. We watch them from the bald face of a mountain. One broad-winged hawk is particularly animated, stooping aggressively at a red-shouldered hawk as it hunts above the trees. They drop dramatically out of the sky; twisting with their talons held menacingly.
The cool morning gives way to a splendid, sunny afternoon bursting with the last vestiges of summer. A rose-breasted grosbeak is still feeding in the spruce trees, though she will be on the wing for better climates in the coming nights. A warbling vireo sings for the last time this year. It is quiet in these woods; the bird song has vacated until spring so that the squawks of blue jays and croaks of ravens feel pointed and singular.
And oh!, the people on this mountain, they are everywhere; short, tall, fat, skinny, young and old and all beautiful and delighted to be out here. Flocks of them walk, run, and waddle up the trails, over rocks and mud and fallen trees. At the summit of this little mountain, it might as well be a city park with all of the humans and dog friends that are up here. But really, it is quite warming and welcoming to see all of us out here, celebrating these final days of warmth.
We go to town after a morning in the woods. It is quaint; full of old houses all fixed up and cheerful with a new brewery built into an old church. We drink beer. A woman is basking in the flowers by the creek, reaching her hands longingly towards a pair of monarch butterflies. Inspired by her joy, I lean into an enormous flower, breath in deeply and manage to inhale a dastardly amount of pollen so that I’m sneezing for the next few minutes. It’s all really picturesque.
On our way home we drive through some dismal cities. Cities that are full of tall, busy looking buildings but absent of all life and character. There are very few people in these urban centers and it feels all very dead and dismal. We leave quickly, hustling back to our little home.
When we get out of the car in Providence — back to our city — it feels wonderful. It is vibrating with life here, with Spanish music bursting from the houses and robins hopping cheerfully in our dirty yard.
