The Point Again

To the dim-lit shore of the mind
Strange things come drifting
When the tide is high.
To the shore of the mind
Little waves run
Lifting, 
With a murmured melody,
Frail forms that slip 
From unknown isles away into the night.


from Driftwood, by Emmy Veronica Sanders


Except at the Point the waves get pretty big and some of the forms left behind are decidedly not frail. We stopped by today to put Alan's skiff away in the barn, the final chore needed to close things down for the season. The extra is a view looking from the rocks up toward the main cabin, shut tight against the battering storms of winter. Hopefully we'll come back at least once while there's snow on the ground.