Ten Maples   I came upon them in the woods — a line of ancient maples, massive, battered by countless winters. They dwarf the pines   and hemlocks, birches, oaks. Their trunks are fat with burls and scars, deep, dark hollows. These trees are haunted, they know things. They must have mattered   back when the forest were cleared for sheep, but this row of maples was spared, a sign that someone cared. Now they matter to me.     © Michael Fleming Dummerston, Vermont July 2026