Forgive Us Our Trespasses

to be a , but curiosity goads us into it. What’s on the other side of that hill? That gate? That fallen-down barn? That rusted-out trestle where we always turn the canoes around? still has the better ring, the thrill of make-believe. But given where I tend to explore, chances are pretty good there won’t be lions and tigers and bears on the other side of that trestle but, oh my, a shirtless man with a cigarette, pulling laundry off the line. And if I paddle through his backyard, binoculars around my neck, I won’t be Leif Erikson or Ibn Battuta;