When the sun sinks below the marshes, setting the grasses on fire with an orange glow, shadows grow long on the dusty High Marsh road.
High Marsh is still a ruddy dirt road, likely not much different from days long past when horse-pulled wagons and fancy coaches used it as a highway.
Nowadays the dust takes a long time to settle and the potholes and sharp rocks create a bone-rattling maze for vehicles. But even now some of the old marsh barns still stand, and the covered bridge with its weathered wood is a well-known landmark, standing above the winding Tantramar River. The river, so sunken into the marshes that one could hardly guess it was there.
Now and then, a few times every summer, a wagon pulled by two or three horses creeps its way slowly along High Marsh road, retracing the steps of countless of others only a century ago.
High Marsh Road glows orange on summer evenings and the sun’s rays linger much longer here, stretching out shadows until they grow absurdly long.
The weakening light bounces off the dogs’ fur, those black creatures with hyena grins and long tongues, trusty companions.