The cove at night

Fall is the time of putting away here.� � Annie and I trigged the old scow to the mushroom mooring around low tide, and I leave Quan’s warm side to trudge through the gravel to the shore in the cold, now that it’s about high.� I feel like my father, in knee boots, and old coat and pants, sneaking a cigarette.� I am about his kind of errand in any case.� The oars rock loudly in the total stillness – no, there’s a plane.� I have an efficient new little LED light on my forehead, red leaves your night eyes.� The scow is riding now to it’s anchor, the mushroom now floating some 12 feet free her, and gun her toward the shore. When the mushroom hits and drags, I cut the trigging line and leave her with a bouy, though she’s likely just where I want her in the intertidal zone, where I can find her in the morning.


On the way back I stop to give the horses a treat of grain, but they are afraid of my forehead with its strange red light.


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