I live in a town of 700 people in rural Central Maine. A few miles from me there’s a hill where you can look down into a working gravel and sand pit and see a circle of water. That’s a kettle hole pond, a neighbor told me once when we passed it. It’s very deep and there’s no inlet and no outlet, he said. I’d never heard of the term kettle hole, but his words stuck in my brain. There was something mysterious and evocative about them.

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