Fog

The 3-hour trip from MA to ME yesterday was warm and sunny the whole way. We turned down 131 at Thomaston and I could see, off in the distance to the south and east, the bank of clouds sitting low on the horizon. The clouds looked innocent enough, but we knew. Within a mile of the house the trees were draped in grey ribbons; at the end of our drive the water and the islands were invisible. The temperature dropped 15 degrees.

Fog loves Owls Head, especially at this time of year. With water on three sides the peninsula seems to generate it. Fog has a rhythm to it like the ocean, hugging the shore, then pulling back a little, then coming in fast to smother the house.

We ate lunch on the deck, in a moment of relative sun. The firs down by the water were barely visible, soupy, spiritual, happy. We see them and the islands and the surf in all kinds of weather, but fog is good for the soul - when the mist crept back in, we gladly left our duties as watchmen of the bay and went inside to read our novels and purge ourselves of the city.