and Left Hand. At one point I forge a low-water bridge flush with the stony stream, golden yellow shelves of poplar and hickory and oak above me. Elsewhere, up out of the run now, bright breaks of green pasture here and there show a farm hanging on. Five miles further along, window down, a dun-gray pair of wings detaches itself from the autumn mosaic of leaves — a huge red-tailed hawk trailing its feathered shadow above me.