Image by Andy Goldsworthy From the farm field you can see the Catskill mountains where I was raised, their irregular stone scrawl a signature I would recognize even if it was signed in sand on the shores of a land far from here. Here, where I have been walking every morning since I quit smoking. Since I quit starving myself to death. Since I decided if my body was going to kill me, I’d stop making its job easier. The field is a patchwork of smaller fields, the faded grid resurfacing again when the snow falls, and hung in the right-hand corner of the farthest quadrant is a pond. I sit at its shore with the geese and watch the sun break free from the mountains, stain umber the river just visible through the leafless trees, before continuing my perambulations. And one morning the geese leave, cleaning the sky with their determined Vs, the last pollen, the last sweetbitter smells of autumn mildew stolen away on the downy barbs of their retreating wings.