Crocuses recoil under
graceful but rude early dusting,
yesterday's twinkle of spring's smile.
Time proves variable again when you live right under the chimes of Town Hall, reminding at those insistent intervals, of its steady passing. One for the half hour and the number of the hour on the hour, sweet sonic booms resonate through this old house, rattling clapboards and storm windows.
Swept into a drawing, I don't hear the chimes. Asleep at night, the waves dissipate into the pewter sky. They do not change, the beats of our lives, but sometimes they are hard to witness.
Marconi hoped we could outrun those sonic blasts and go back through time.
Wellfleet was his spot.
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