OCTOBER FIELD JOURNAL Kame Terraces, Salisbury Once rivers limined the stone mountains with gravel and sand. Below, the ice-blocked valley; across, the wild flow of melt. Three kinds of oak. Witch hazel and teaberry undergrow the logged-over never-plowed land. So much time, yet not enough time. I want to be like a river on the edge of the ice— letting go as I can, holding whatever I must hold. I know "limined" wasn't a word. It is now.