West of East and Vice Versa

As you drive into West Leyden, you see the Milk Plant Tavern on your right, its outer walls suitably and milk-cannily decorated on a white background. (Love that name.) No, I did not go in. Then you cross a bridge with a sign telling you it's the East Branch of the Mohawk River. Leaving West Leyden, you soon find yourself in West Turin, whereupon a great blue heron almost swoops onto the road in front of you, NYS Route 26, causing you to slow down, as the pterodactyllic creature lands in a field, though you'd think a swamp or lake was its true home. Who knew.

Brantingham haiku

endless waves lapping

yellowed maple leaf floating

morning sun rising

Vacantsy

Pawlie Kokonuts, speaking in the condescending and off-putting third person, is off for several days to the Adirondacks.

Vac time, baby.

No Internet, no phone, no faxes, no emails (probably no sex either: too many moose [mooses? mice?] and loons, is my excuse). And I most certainly left no number for work. Well, there is no number. No phone, remember? And my cellphone has little or no coverage up there. Splendid.

If you need to reach me, just go to PrivateNudistRetreatForPotBelliedMemoirists.com.

(Fellow naturalists: Don't you just hate it the way sand and ants find their way into all those cracks?)

You all behave now, ya hear?