Sunset from Thetford, by Sally Duston
Welcome to “Dear Daybreak”, a weekly Daybreak column. It features short vignettes about life in the Upper Valley: an encounter, a wry exchange, a poem or anecdote or reflection… Anything that happened in this region or relates to it and that might strike us all as interesting or funny or poignant.
Want to submit your own Dear Daybreak item? Just go here!
Dear Daybreak:
Roy Hatch’s “Autumn Barrage” video of acorns falling inspired me to send this in.
The Knock-Knock Bardo
While I travel the world’s
geography, history,
and virtual present,
in mind and poetry—
a September reality
knocks, constant
as a wound-up alarm clock,
startling me from work,
leisure, and sleep equally,
as if to remind me of the world
my body lives in, regardless
of metaphysical distractions—
the house over-spread
by the massive oak,
whose acorns slingshot
deck, and shotgun metal roof,
like Tolkein’s angry Ents,
while the rest thud softly
onto lawn, as arrows into flesh.
Do I mistake as warfare,
an offered harvest
I thought belonged
to squirrels and chipmunks?
Should I contest
rodents’ rights,
eye-to-avaricious-eye
on weeping sod,
snatch their manna
by the bushel,
cook up a way—
pan-seared or baked in cake—
to make acorns appetizing?
Am I meant to mind
the oak’s business,
instead of what I thought
was mine, install
a nanny-cam to better spy?
Do I need to be outside,
attentively breathing
autumn air, and drinking
Chardonnay light,
like a Buddhist Bacchus,
walking barefoot
on cool, dewy grass—
and bruising woody knobs,
to avert being unwittingly
slain in the spirit?
Shall I ask the oak
to favor me,
with a direct hit
on my foggy noggin,
to wake me
to the present present?
— April Ossmann, WRJ. "The Knock-Knock Bardo" is from We by April Ossmann (Red Hen Press 2025). Used with permission from the publisher. Here’s a link to the “Autumn Barrage” video:
Dear Daybreak:
In my experience, there are a number of magical places in the Upper Valley. I discovered one of them as a result of people traipsing onto some of my favorite trails in March and April of 2020, during the Covid pandemic.
During that time, I was also mourning the recent death of my father in December, 2019. I searched the Upper Valley Land Trust’s website and a nearby trail system on conserved farmland interested me because both my father and I had grown up on farms that fed our souls.
On a late May afternoon, I pulled into the parking area and began walking up the John Morton-designed ski trails. I had 40 minutes of free time, so at the 20-minute mark I turned back and had the thought, “I miss you, Dad.” Immediately, a nearby barred owl called out. I was a little stunned, but as is my habit I returned the call, and was delighted by a response from the owl.
I decided then that my dog, Harry, and I would be returning the next day for our daily early morning walk. This time we ventured up the dirt road to better view the rolling farm fields and discovered a trail that went up between the fields. We followed it and upon entering the woods discovered other trails leading off in several directions. The trail leveled off and eventually began descending down from the height of land. As we retraced our steps back to the fields, I heard footsteps in the woods to our right. Looking up, I saw two beautiful coyotes loping our way. Assuming they thought my black Lab was a bear, I hollered, “Hey!!” Immediately they veered off in separate directions and disappeared back into the woods. Again, I was stunned, and as we stood at the top of the field admiring the view to the east, I knew I would be coming back often to explore this intriguing spot, and its many, many trails.
So in June, when Father’s Day arrived, I knew where I would hike in memory of my father. From the top of the hill we headed left onto the Heyl Trail, where we were treated to the sound and unexpectedly the sight of an osprey. On the powerline, the bright wildflowers greeted us. Shortly after turning right onto the AT, a “sprig” of oak leaves twirled down and landed in the path in front of us. Each one of these sights had connections to experiences or conversations I had shared with my father.
As Harry and I approached the junction of the AT and the Cossingham Trail, I decided to take a photo. While preparing to take the picture, I noticed two men on the AT, walking toward us.
We all stopped to chat, and I asked if they lived in the area. The older man paused and hesitantly said they were from Texas. (If you remember, the AT was officially closed to through-hikers at the time.) When I showed interest in their hike, he went on to say they were only hiking the AT in Vermont and New Hampshire.
They inquired about my presence on the trail, and I shared how I was just finishing up walking a loop that morning in memory of my father. The older man turned to the younger man beside him and said, “I was just telling my son that if anything were to happen to me, I would want my ashes scattered on the AT and in the ocean.”
I asked if they would send out thoughts of peace as they hiked. They nodded, and as we were parting, the father asked where I had started on the AT. When I told him, he said he and his son would walk in silence and think of my father during that stretch.
As Harry and I returned to the top of the field, I knew I would be returning again and again to this magical and soulful area.
— Lori Harriman, Wilder
And if you missed Dear Daybreak last week, here it is.