Much to keep one company --all along the side of the bay, where rocks and the seaweed catch the interest of the gulls --one wet in the breeze shaking its down and rattling its strong wings. As though posing on the dry top of a rock for half an hour! - - - - - - - - - - At the bend, high up and sunk in the sand --in the breeze --the folks in suits and sweaters --rich colors --lined up. Shades, hats, chairs and blankets. - - - - - The fisherman sets his hopes with a firm stance where the tide moves in. Kee kee --with the gulls probably 50 feet out . . . a white tug in the spray --motors to the pier. - - - - - Sounds --muffled --the children are at play --and quick to rise or run a parent fields --shouts! - - - - - There is plenty of time, not much to do, lots of sunshine. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The rich deep tone of the choppy water rushing with the tide way off. Not a single sandpiper flits upon the damp sandy bank of the channel where the tide shifts marshes -- hurry through the banks to the dry dock, as now against the night air. - - - - - Ready? To slowly shift the hull from the heavy sea floor . . . catch the fast line that cuts the breeze . . . and tie it by the boom . . . and fasten the rudder . . . and quick, bear down upon each rib of the tide drawn into the sandy floor of the channel. . . . - - - - - Hold the oars and push the ship to sea. Lean with the current and catch the sail to hold all movement in the air . . . - - - - - Even if the evening light is dim . . . and all silent except for the wash of water in the reeds - - - the echo of the oar against the hollow wood . . . . no voices at the shore . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . A deep breath steadies the weary lack of air or time or strength . . . . the sitting up catches the heavy dizzy fall of sleep . . . . the stretch across endless space and time when there is time . . . . bear the catches of chances and the weariness or wearing down and caring . . . and strength pushed or tossed . . . Thought stops the lack of chance . . . . In time. - - - - - Even though the reflected light softens the flat clear window glass . . . flitting traces of the rain or the breeze or the shadow of the morning or night in a path buoy the pace . . . . So. - - - - - To clear the brow. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The guava, the quince, the pear, and the avocado . . . the sack of flour, the coffee beans, the breads, the berries . . . vines, dry branches, colored leaves . . . . in nuance of tone, of shadow, of bright light. There is the master of the big account, the director of the small wares, the boy who helps, the mother who packs the sack for advantage, at cost, this season. - - - - - 100 lbs born back and slid along the dock. Now. After the small light, this night, casts some shadows back of the shelf. - - - - - Down - into the weary hole a store of hope. - - - - - - - - - - Potatoes, beans, the sheep, the five hens, and a bucket of cows milk. Cool. Bright in the morning. - - - - - As again, quick to finish and to run along the shore to bear the hull from the sandy bottom in the cool evening. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Without a doubt the hardy will to finish quickly before the evening light dims in the trees and drifts across fields to the vast sea --the sails fopping with the lines clang clanging against the mast and the boom. - - - - - Hold on, while the cool evening falls to the whisper of a breeze . . . . and it is the clouds that bear at the rim the last of the days bright light --skirting low along the horizon --the few clouds bearing reflections onto another evening there, where the boats dock and the lines are tied and the bell ding ding rings through the common for children to set the table, feed the horse, get out the milk. The wooden chairs dragged across the floor boards to the broad table. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - This skiff laps at the breezy tide of the season, the salty spray stinging the willing to be. Please hold tight . . . . and the calm shift in time will steady the course. - - - - - While, returning along the shore . . . the slightest breeze about the elms, Slowly the sun warms the bright maple while --clang clang --men work at the harbour, and children leap the dry fence. - - - - - The line of the tide leaves a waving trace only just barely changing the tone and bearing a slight impression to dry in the sunlight. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Welcome! - as though everything was arranged with nothing in mind but, you bet, your pleasure. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Could have carried along the small sack of fresh vegetables from the kitchen garden --to keep in the cool corner --when in chatter at the sink --and at counters beside the table, the family prepares for company . . . Confident of the chore --instructions for the children --a cheerful bounty. - - - - - Within a realm of possibility --the solid and repetitive scheme of responsibility. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - There was, below the floor of the barn --large cows, and the dry hay strewn about. The ceiling was low --one wall wide open to bright sunshine. - - - - - The rooster was contentious. And what a surprise . . . . one shed there and another door that, who knows what ! - - - - - The bales were stacked up and down --throughout the open center to the window high up, and upon the floors mid-way. It was not always clear where the hay lay --and whoops up one end or another tumbling down. - - - - - Dry and warm -- the air was filled with the dust through shafts of light in the stall and way up. - - - - - The wooden floor was swept clear for the tractor . . . . - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Not easy to obtain that quality of a place which is not fussed about but loved --for more than a generation. There is a spareness to what is retained --and maintained. This is not some temporary fix - - - - - - - - - - A solid structure kept in just proportion to the lay of the land --not easy to keep that quality that is not too fussed about but held in a fine regard --for more than a generation. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Sooner the one distant shore than the bright fluttering by of life in the field drawn to the flood of sunshine --by the bluff. - - - - - A flicker lost in shadows from the high ridge or another land. Not nearly sure --the berry leaf. And of the far divide. And for an evening song --far away where such would better bear the chance. - - - - - - - - - - Always clear --the path along the mowing in time to catch the sheaves blown dry -- what of the weary drive of change and want of certainty bent or split through the weave. It is fine. Across the field --to descend in the wind to the shallow tide along the shore. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - And when the few clouds are reflected in the sea washing over the hard sand shore - the sparkle of the daylight clears the stream. And the tide sounds deep with the breaking of new waves slow, then, to carry along the tumble of a shell. - - - - - Wouldn't the sea gull screech, then. And the spray of salt sting. Cool - the ocean water clean upon the flat shore. - - - - - And in the deep streams between the sand bar and the rocks - a quick grasp for the floor as the current stretches the distance. - - - - - All at once - the warm sun dries the breeze, and a clarity of space stretches time. - - - - - - - - - - "At a very early stage in their history the Mycenaeans turned their attention towards the sea and far-off lands, inspired by a spirit of adventure and a desire to add to the very limited resources with which nature had endowed their homeland . . . . . The draughts were shallow and consequently the ships could be beached in wind-protected, sandy harbors." - [Taylor, Lord William. The Mycenaeans. London. Thames & Hudson. 1964.] - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - The bright sparkle of morning light in the shallow wash of a tide --clean and transparent. Flowing patterns of the light caught in the rise and deeper to the sandy bottom --brighter than air and the day --the phosphorescence rising with each movement within the flow --a clarity. - - - - - Absorbed in flat patterns on the damp sand ridges --a labyrinth as the patterns of light are interwoven in water and therefore reflected along the clean shore. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - So the hen and its three chicks --cluck cluck --peck about the pen --seeds and weeds and the dewy grass about the wooden rails --misty morning racing fast to the still bank. - - - - - Waking the folk in the spare kitchen back of the weathered shingles. - - - - - Dull clunk of the iron pots of porridge --stir stir --before the heavy noonday, in summer. Still, there is the labor back of the shed for the sheep --and tall stalks and husks. - - - - - In lazy drawl the tale for the neighbor's share --bag of grain, the soup, the pot, the hoe, the rail. - - - - - "Come'n?" he'd say and drag the chair. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - What would a word be if the world were not in a fair way inspiring the imagination. Regard the fine complexity of materials which, in the fuller seasons, bloom. - - - - - Far back of the mysterious --beyond knowing -- universal and inclusive --there are times of peace and, through particulars, those which soldier a precarious responsiveness --that engage. - - - - - Though whole comes through leaving the particulars behind --I would notice the true. Would reach for ease and a generosity . . . . not give up the slight passing by of instance --surely long in coming. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Into the wide open, the broad echo, the high space of the sun far beyond --a breeze that drifts across the moonlit fields . . . . at night, the quiet length of time. - - - - - Tall pines, the river edge, the low drift of light clouds changing at the horizon and on . . . . the sounds. - - - - - When in the passing by, the proud posture, the nod . . . . the path long to the shore and drifting. The bird song. The waving branch. - - - - - Shadows from the moon cast clear across the far outside early into the dark and the pristine. - - - - - The finch early --and singing into the daylight. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Now the evening light warms the branches of the trees, the stone walls and fields damp and wind-swept --the tall brush in seed pods, the milkweed --when clouds are tinted just above the golden light cast upon the furthest trees --so the sun goes down.

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