My writer friend, Brent Lewis, posted a reflection of summer on the Eastern Shore. I wanted to share it.
Muggy drops of humidity hang suspended midair and almost visible.
The pungency of the marsh is pervasive, strong. It sticks to the skin. Rich with the cycles of life and death, the marsh is a sensory reminder of the changes wrought by time’s tides.
A blue heron flies low and with grace across a dish-calm creek.
Something else drifts by on the slow, saturated breeze. Something wistful. Something that smells like bulkhead creosote, tastes like warm beer from 10 oz. cans, and looks like cutoff denim shorts and bright cotton tank tops that provide free advertising to bars, beverages, and billionaire rock bands.
Feels like a dock splinter, like nostalgia.
Sounds like a summer squall. Electricity cracks the sky. The downriver horizon darkens with much more threat than warning. Regret storms in through unbattened hatches. A few minutes of intense natural fury and the tempest blows north, up the Chesapeake…
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