In Maine, a spring fog and an autumn fog are different – the spring ones lie heavy like a blanket on a sleeping teenager, while you can feel the fall ones just want to clear like a 7-year old on Christmas morning.


I am down bailing boats and can barely see the trees on the shore above the dock. The lobstermen’s diesels are growling invisibly on the river. Then, from the top of the trees, sunbeams start playing with the silhouettes of the leaves, and it goes from a Turner to a Weston, and finally, with a burst of light, that chases the chill, to Wyeth – the October country of brushstrokes as fine as etching.

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