When a local gives a wave don't avert or be afraid

It is a good year for Mayflowers They are sprawling on the hill leading to the chicken coop and the shop

He grips the podium like the wooden wheel of a loaded cargo schooner comfortable yet firm as he steers us through another night

I remember Coo from boyhood summers with his large extended Italian family renting down the street from us

I see Gerry now, blue hooded sweatshirt, ball cap, blue pants. Rockafella, he calls me (and everybody else).

Shallow draft, a whisker between her keel and sandy flat, Softly she slides over a thousand, steamer holes, Eel grass tickles the sweet, clear grain, shaped to steer and keep this cat on course.