Yesterday morning came to us shrouded in mild rain and fog. It enclosed us in a soft, dream-like world, where we could see the snow before us being washed away, but couldn’t see the herring gulls that were crying 100 yards offshore.
There was a dreariness in which beloved things could be imagined as being tested by human reactions: the desperation of the Cemetery’s old Camperdown Elm, as she tries to shelter her assigned souls; the loneliness of the abandoned shed on Brooklin Boat Yard’s pier, as it watches Chatto Island disappear….
(Brooklin, Maine)