This is what Maine looked like last night: sun setting over the water (yes, from this spot it does), staining the rippled surface of the ocean a red that is redder the blood and pinker than carnations. The clouds, rippled like the water, stained with the same paints, and where they broke, a fiery green. The echoes of the sun itself, a bold vertical stripe of brilliant orange. The boats, black shadows on the water. The distant lighthouses winking white and red, as they go.
This is what Maine smelled like in the evening: salty and spicy and sweet, from the ocean breeze and the shoreline balsams and pines and the last of the season’s blooming beach roses. fruity from the dark red rosehips that are bursting from every bush. pungent with the organic exhalations of exposed seaweed from the retreating tide. dusty from the sun-heated rocks. sharp spikes of lighter fluid, drifting wisps of barbeque smoke, and stomach-rumbling blasts of grilling lobster and steaks.
This is what Maine sounds like this morning: screeches from the gulls, quacking from the ducks, punctuated with the deep bass guitar thrum of bullfrogs in the wetland near the pool. an endless phut-phut-phut from the lobster boats harvesting tonight’s dinner. the tread of dedicated exercise walkers on the one-lane road, working up an appetite for breakfast. masses of children forming up with bikes and bathing suits. the occasional slap of a wave on the rocks in the wake of the lobster boats. the whistle of a solitary osprey.