Tuesday, August 13, 2013

Deer Isle, Maine.

if you get a chance to go... sit on a rock in maine and watch fog roll in, and out, and in... tucking trees taller than your history into shrouds...albeit temporary ones. daily, thricely. tides are serious business, the reminders of boats floating off, kids stranded on perches, Lo-ong anchor lines... all there.
sand is all just crushed shell, after all.
mosquitos loom larger here, but no human is more than a foot from an orange or green spray to deprogram the hunter.
just sit. ignore the children at this time, even the nurser at your breast.  It will be her first official sunburn but it will fade.  and you can tell her later about her skin's lust for the sun between the clouds, the run for the silver lining.
pictures taken of lichen do not translate well, their blues falling to shadows on film, or what passes for film these days.
wet in and out of place, the damp, the slick, you name it, it is here that wet is dominant, and we submit. we walk, someone jumps, we float, we ride.