There are still trails that meander through woods down to fishing holes at sunrise.
Middlebury, Vermont exudes a preposterous credibility. It's a place where you expect Norman Rockwell to scurry out from behind a bush to fidget a leaf or a twig just so. It's the land that tacky forgot. Perhaps it's the ice which preserves it through so many of the months from spoiling?
Dunno, but even in the blue shift of first light the hard scrabble brush seems romantically nostalgic. And the stark grit of big city snarl feels as far away as... it is.