Skip to content

Archive for

Seaside Adjustment

Today the wind blows with such force that pools of water catch waves.  Imagine stink bugs and such surfing.  The Adirondack chairs blew off into the garden.  Up at four am, I heard the boom and saw the immediate darkness as the power went out this morning.  Such darkness and quiet.  All I wanted was coffee, but when I ventured into the kitchen with a flashlight, the stove wouldn’t turn on.  I cracked open a window, then shut it and went back to bed.  A few hours later, I realized all I needed to do was light the gas.  Coffee at seven-thirty was fine, but not as sweet as it might have been earlier.  The power came on soon enough, and I went online and found the photographs in the Times on the snowfall in NY.

The wind still sounds like flute music, unless someone nearby is practicing a wooden flute.  I phoned my parents and let them hear the wind.  Can a sound be bracing?  For a moment, the sun came out, and I thought to walk outside; just as my thought was to turn to action, the sun disappeared.

This is the seaside adjustment, the New England difference from Colorado, where sun is around 300 days of the year.  When I first moved out, I discovered I was exhausted all the time.  I wondered if the dip in oxygen from 5000 feet to sea level affected me in a way that the reverse never did. Now the wind sounds like the sea, and I suspect as I write this, quite a few folks are headed to the beach. I will don my sunscreen and head out as well.

To Autumn, because it must be read at least once this season

Or heard:

To Autumn, read by Stanley Plumly, from



in the near distance, horses

My first morning in my new home I woke to fog covering the trees in a soft blur. At the window I saw pastures stretching ahead. My new home backs into wetlands, a few yards wide, it seems. Beyond, a few acres of meadow where there are horses. There are five in all: one black, one brown, one white, and two pintos, one of which must have been born recently. They are all, in a word, beautiful. The black horse is a bit of a loner, but the brown horse adores the white horse. He (I’m guessing) follows her, and stands close, not exactly nuzzling, but at this distance I can’t be sure. She stamps her front leg, he stamps his back; their tails flick.

Dragonflies and tiny birds swoop in the autumnal heat, and the squirrel looks in the window, affronted, curious, who can say? Maybe he misses the cat who lived here. Near noon, three large ravens–okay, crows–noisily investigated an old nest. Today’s sunrise looked like a Rothko painting, but with many more striations.

I’ve backed into paradise; I’ve backed into it before, but never with a such a view.

%d bloggers like this: