My River

It is a raw November day along the Maine coast. The fog is sweeping down off Mount Battie, and our backyard is covered with a wet blanket of fallen leaves. Most of the maples and oaks behind the house are bare now. As a result, the view of the Megunticook River is unobstructed from the bedroom window. Looking at the river this morning put me in mind of the joy I felt moving to this place a few years ago. It reminded me also of this essay I wrote for the magazine.

Having just returned from the far side of the continent, I've been dwelling on the concept of personal geography — how we define ourselves and are defined by the landscapes we choose to inhabit. And I realized that, for the time being at least, this river is me.