Last night I dreamed of Lubec, Maine, not the real one but the one I sort of remember from forty years ago, a place where your truck needs to be half boat, where the ocean circles around behind you like the neighbor’s dog, thinking to catch you off guard, a place of cold wind, gray shale rock and uneasy, restless water, always in motion, a place of half-forgotten histories, where the locals rode you past the house you used to live in, and told you all about everyone who’s occupied the building since you left, and then I woke up cold, with my blankets on the floor.

photocredit: http://www.dunkielsaunders.com