by Joseph Horn

Several years back, some dear friends of mine moved to a house on the edge of a quiet saltwater bay. The house was erected the same year that Maine became a state, and, as was typical in those days, it was built right on the edge of the road. But behind the house is a rolling field that cascades over a few acres, where it eventually turns into an oak border that demarcates the boundary between the fields and the silty cliffs that meet the water. The spot is like a bucolic oil painting of old. It is also a lot of lawn to mow.