Walking down to the tire shop along the Forest Hills Greenway — not so green in winter with all the snow, couple inches crunching underfoot.
A fork in the path. I think of “miles to go before I sleep” and “the road less traveled” and realize those are from two different Frost poems.
An idyllic brook winds through the woods. You’d barely know it was fed by runoff from a residential drainage culvert.
Bridges, bridges.
