This is one of the oldest rural cemeteries I have stumbled upon in my photographing travels so far (I am sure there are older in Vermont...) Maybe I am weird, but I try and read the headstones when I traipse across the hallowed ground with my camera. In this one the older marker I found was that of a 4 year old buried there in 1794. Some of the graves were far too worn to be read, especially the slate ones. I looked at them, blank of any name or identification, and wondered who was beneath me. For me, contemplating anonymity in death is one of the loneliest things imaginable.
Maybe that is why I like cemeteries? The mystery of those who lie there and the connectedness knowing that each of us will share the same fate one day. It's what we all have in common.