Stone walls are pretty much New England. They are a way of life up here. They are relentless. Around here, if you look long and hard you'll see them everywhere. I've had friends from 'away' on their first visit to the area remark, "Who built all these walls?" This one is on our property nestled in the woods, and to be perfectly honest I had never really checked out this corner and the wall until a couple of weeks ago. Elenka pointed it out to me, and I ventured over. I do believe Robert Frost has captured the essence of the 'lives of walls' in his poem "Mending Wall". I can't help thinking of his words as I stroll along the rocks, or attempt to cross over one... In these parts, farmers went for the stones, they found while clearing their land, long before they they looked to wood for fences to mark property lines. "Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun, And makes gaps even two can pass abreast..."