We came down from Pennsylvania past the Cotoctin Mountains. We have fond memories of those hills, having spent long weekends and summers at the Quaker camp belonging to Baltimore Yearly Meeting. The apple trees were heavy with fruit. And pumpkins were set in audacious piles.
Before we knew it, traffic had begun to pile up; population density grew; tall buildings sprung from former wheat fields. We were in the city, the District of Columbia. I was able to catch a small, precise exhibit at the National Gallery: George De Forest Brush. The show covered only his renderings of American Indians…not captured by an ethnographic lens, but by one that emphasized their artistic sensibility…such as a sculptor showing an Aztec lord his recent work.
Outside, away from the quiet of the gallery, traffic jostled in the streets. The night lights came on the vast bureaucratic offices that line the mall
