Heartland and in the trees.... There is a sense of muscle in the green skinned knolls and ridges of Minnesota. The trees and bristling bushes, Scrub oak, ferns and nettles that sting any exposed flesh ring the roads off from the grassy fields and the ponds and the lakes, ubiquitous in Minnesota. Even the fences seem more like barricades against the outside, rather than enclosures for the livestock, the corn the cows, and occasional horse. Farm houses, either old and greying, or younger one level functional boxes stand guard over the driveways the entryways to the road. The roads follow the outlines of the muscles of the earth seemingly flexed in sinews of fertility. They are tolerated as necessary intrusions. There is always a wary alertness in the life along the two lane roads. At night spirits seem to gather in the trees . . . not quite malevolent . . . But powerful in their subtle alienness. Alien to at least my consciousness, the trees seem to be alive in winds that move only in their branches. The landscape is not pastoral. There are no fauns here, and fairies would not survive the battle between the sinewy earth and the treacherous sky . . . But The trees and fearsome owls seem to share the night with some formless creatures that linger just out of view . . . watching, encircling . . . A strangeness that excites, frightens, and Conspires To keep us in line To keep us from them To keep us from the hidden core of the land. There have been others before us. The land is old The roads are new. We are being watched. Stephen Morse 1980+?