Totman Cove
8:00 and Orion is already above the apple tree. It’s a windless night, and I can hear the waves from Totman Cove, a mile away. It’s an endless breathing: gather, spill, pause; repeat. It began somewhere hundreds of miles away, as a flurry off the Azores, maybe, a current of energy sent traveling the water all the way to the coast of Maine, to break on this beach. Somewhere along the way what began as a push of wind resolves into rhythm. But it doesn’t end on the beach: now the energy’s airborne again, insinuating into my ears, my brain. The storm in me begins at sea.