The seagull stands on a rock, intently looking at the surf. The sea for a hundred yards out is a slurry of floating ice and thick water, due to the unrelenting cold. When a wave comes in, the seagull flies a couple of feet straight up, just out of reach of the water, then settles back down. The waves must be loosening food of some sort from the rocks; why else would the seagull repeat his dance over and over? Then it picks up a strand of seaweed and carries it out of sight. My guess is that there's a mussel attached.
Hard work making a living on the frozen ocean shore.
Maine infected me at the age of 12, in Brunswick, on a family trip from Minnesota. The bug was more or less dormant until I moved to Boston in the late 70s, spread a little in flirtations with the mountains and lakes of New Hampshire and Vermont, and now, with the bemused tolerance of my wife Cynthia Dockrell, has set in without cure.
About Me
- Jim Krosschell
- Retired publishing executive ecstatic with the idea of spending most of his time on the coast of Maine
Thursday, February 12, 2015
Saturday, February 7, 2015
(After)(Before) The Winter Storms
An interlude occurs in the endless parade.
Sunset
The islands light up.
A few minutes later, the sky turns pink.
The following morning
Stay tuned for the next blast.
Sunset
The islands light up.
A few minutes later, the sky turns pink.
The following morning
Stay tuned for the next blast.
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