Norman's totems are disintegrating under a tarp in Bobcaygeon. When we rolled the one on the left, piles of sawdust fell from tiny boreholes. Ants have made their home in his work. Life goes on.
Later, in the Curve Lake cemetery, we were too busy scanning the markers to notice the darkening sky. By chance, I looked up. Within seconds, branches had scattered across the graves and the wind was whipping sand into our eyes. We ran to the car. A sign?