I don’t know a soul in the Waterville Cemetery, but I visit frequently to stand at its carefully defined border. It’s a line of delineation — on this side a quiet place to linger, along with the departed, amid snow-muffled plots under huge, dark evergreens. Out there, the exposed landscape of wheat and sage lies shrouded in winter mist or shimmering in summer heat. It often has an other-worldly feel that, I think, would beckon a spirit from its rest.
Cemetery in Winter