Ever wonder what central Maine guys of all ages can small-talk about? Last night I discovered the secret. One man starts out with "Let me tell you about the time I jacked up that building and tried to move it. . . . " and then every other guy in earshot moseys over and starts chiming in with his own version. Women, you may find it alarming to discover how many men in your life have believed, at one time or another, that driving your existing structure down Main Street and accidentally ripping out everyone else's power lines could be best possible answer to all house problems. (To be fair, those guys seem pretty rueful now.)

But it was a good night, hanging around with the house-movers, eating pulled pork and blueberry tarts, talking about music and farming, sitting in lawn chairs under a giant maple tree and listening to the Mallet Brothers play while the rain changed its mind and didn't rain after all. Another sweet elegy in my homeland.

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So Geoffrey Hill readers: let's start talking. As I know from Facebook remarks, a few of you already have something to say about "Genesis." I've responded to Tom's post about the poem, and I hope you chime in too.