Winter Folk

On a narrow strip of earth in southern New England there is a spot no more than a few miles long. It’s a hot spot for myriad fair-weather friends. A motley summer crew, the starring cast. Shoulder seasons draw the same lot, though fewer. The supporting characters.

Winter folk are who you’ll find here in January. They impassion the life giving Atlantic. On late January days earth, ocean, horizon and heaven seem to draw no lines. So close are they that you may be unable to discern where earth, ocean end and heaven begins. A day like today.

We huddle and hover as near to it as is sensible, or not. Some submerg themselves on even the coldest days. Lovers, surfers, “polar bears”, parents walking children, vice versa, grandparents, solos seeking solitude, or company. Laughing dogs, bundled babies, neighbors. Metal detectors detect. Hope floats. Fishermen make a living, still.

Sand, rock and cliff ledge we wander. Seawall, lighthouse in January sun, fog, drizzle, rain. To the sea through snow and wind we go. To be nearer it’s calm and comfort, it’s storm and fury. The earths offering of quietude or exhilarations.

Perhaps we know from whence we came. If ever we left, we return to the beginning end. Or to the finite end at the end.

Today is, if for a while, a day to behold.

It is a gorgeous day in January.

I return to the Sea and The Winter Sun.

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