At the Lobster Trap some cars are clustered in the lot, close together for company, the water on the Eel Pond is flat, and the stream rushes under the little railroad bridge with its art class decorations out to Phinney's Harbor, to the Bay, and to the Sea.
It is the gathering clouds that command attention. They soar over the Eel Pond while the sun paints them -- white to pink to dusty gray, billow by billow. The ospreys stretch their flight to the tips of the clouds, then dive into the folds, then plummet to the water's plane with a clumsy, terrifying splash. Somehow they survive this crash landing and sometimes emerge with a fish that they then adjust in their talons, sometimes with nothing, but as they shuffle away in flight they shudder every feather to shake off the water so they can soar again.
From the railroad tracks, all paths seem possible -- to Woods Hole, to New York, to Tennessee. On this forbidden perch above the water, the view out to the sea seems to stretch and shimmer forever. Beneath our feet the track bed holds the ghosts of trains to the Cape from generations gone away; we mourn their passing -- the travelers and the trains.
The sun lights up the sky in a different way each minute. Shadows gather on the shore but the cloud tops burst with light and drip down to the water like melted marshmallow. The moon hangs in the sky. It is following the sun down to the water, but this moon grows stronger each day, full of promise.
As I gather all of this in I have only one thought. "Hold on to this !" "Keep this moment !" "Do not let this summer go away........hold on."
Impossible. The sun will set, the colors will settle, the summer is gone and it is time to reap what we have sown.
moon over phinney's harbor
