Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Mid-July and here I sit looking up "scrimshaw" to write a not-great metaphor about an 18 year-old Nantucket sailor from the 1830s and this tree next to my window.  Both of them in full sail, wind in hair.  Anything could happen-- fog and white-shrouded figures; tea; scrimshaw.  All this blue. 

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