narranara2

We drive slowly through the narrow lanes, past Newport’s piers and shops, and once again admire the old Rhode Island town’s historic sea captain’s houses and millionaire’s mansions, then head out onto the scenic road that skirts Narragansett Bay.

The bay is hardly visible, as fog has swallowed up familiar scenes. One of our young companions looks out and observes, “It’s like the Newport Bridge never even existed!”

And so I am preoccupied with thoughts of bridges lost and drifting in the fog, of sailing ships and whaling ships, of those who must go down to the sea, of bodies and souls both tempest-tossed, of swirling surf and wild waves, of cabbages and kings.

Just then a snowy egret takes wing before my very eyes, bright pure holy white against the churning dark sea.

This day near the ocean is harsh and howling, its energy chaotic and its strength overwhelming and its roaring message sounding like a warning…It is a lovely day.

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One thought on “Stormy weather

  1. PHotos are striking. The shoreline looks like some parts of Alaska. I’m sure you were not wearing a yachtsman’s cap while motoring through Newport’s narrow lanes. More likely a fisherman’s cap or a halibut cap. Your lady beside you. The misty half-obscured seascape your ambiguous companion–maybe friend but also maybe threat, mystery of intentions, drawing you out there like a pair of ragged claws scuttling past millionaire mansions to find the right kind of human voices that will wake all us before we drown.

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