Not one, but two: Hawks.

Route 32 brought me from my gravel drive across the Newburgh Beacon Bridge,
{for those of us who care about cartography, that's north and just slightly east}.
I took myself up the Taconic Parkway, for the sake of beauty and with the quiet
hope of seeing hawks on the greener shores of the Hudson.

Albany was gross with buildings, traffic circles, chain hotels and luckily,
I made it onto Route 9 near Saratoga Springs before the Rush. Two-lane
Americana at a most conservative 40 miles an hour, 9 opened up the conversation
of public rests and the appetite that was growing gently inside of me.

As if sent by the divine brewer himself, I passed through Glenn Falls, NY
just as bladder and stomach met to stage a coup. They found salvation at
Davidson Brother's Brewery.

160 miles later: I find myself circling around Saint Laurent and the similarly
sacred Denis in Montreal's snowy Latin Quarter.
How sweet the streets look, powdered and plowed! Bonne soiree, Quebec.
It is most lovely to see you.