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Peeking down through fields of green, on the summer side of life…

-Gordon Lightfoot

 

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Summer days in Maine come in shades of green and blue and granite. Early morning fog over the Bay lifts to reveal pine cloaked hills crowned in stone, harbors dotted with moored boats, wings of sails gliding across the bay-mirroring the gulls, terns, and osprey overhead.

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Still wreathed in morning mist, the sounds of the lake are muffled- fish break the surface silently, loons cry mournfully from one fir edged shore to the other. Dragonflies touch the surface of the water in one step of their dance before taking wing again.

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In the wood, shafts of midday sun warm the balsam and fir; the scent of their needles rising like sap. Trunks like cathedral pillars line rock strewn paths and echo the choirs of wood thrush and chickadee.

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In Maine, summer’s time is marked on a clockface of petals…fields of lupine in June are overtaken by hedges and fence rows of beach rose in July. These give way to blueberries and hydrangea, hollyhock and Queen Anne’s lace in August.

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Time is measured by sand…hours sliding lazily between fingers and toes. And minutes tumble over one another, rolling as melted ice cream down a spoon or chin.

These are but fleeting days, these high tides of summer, and the minutes will pull away from shore once again…

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