10/28/2026
Downstream of Potter Creek, I passed abandoned houses on both banks of the Chaz. Weathered, broken docks, sagging porches, windows like empty eye sockets. Each house seemed to hold a story, waiting for someone to listen.
I tried to imagine them as they once were: a boat tied to the dock, voices drifting from a porch, a light coming on as evening settled over the river.
Now those dark windows watch the water. From my kayak, I found myself looking back—as though someone might still appear at the door.