Maine
Uneven sorrow made with glossy darkened logs, splendid grass; the enmity of a heavy sky, and magic from driftwood knots lying on copperish mud. Then, spots of dull silver of lichen and seagulls, and, upset straw, your hair, in confined freedom around a stillness owned by a schooner aground, a ship of laments. Wiscasset, July/74